Bethlehem Road (39 page)

Garnet Royce received her civilly enough, but his manner was distant and somewhat surprised. He had obviously forgotten her from her visit to Ametiryst following Lockwood Hamilton’s death, which was hardly surprising, and he now had no idea who she was. She did not waste time in niceties.

“I have come to see you, Sir Garnet, because I plan to write a book—about a certain religious movement, to which your wife Naomi Royce belonged, before she died.”

His face froze. “My wife was a member of the Church of England, ma’am. You have been misinformed.”

“Not according to her letters,” she replied, equally coldly. “She wrote several very personal, very tragic letters to a certain Lizzie Forrester, who was a member of the same movement. Miss Forrester emigrated to America, and the letters never reached her. They remained in this country, and have come into my hands.”

He remained stony-faced, his hand near the bell rope.

She must hurry before she was thrown out. She opened her reticule and pulled out the pages she had brought. She began to read, starting with Naomi’s account of her husband’s forbidding her to attend the church of her conviction and sending her to her room until she should comply with his wishes, and her vow that she would refuse to eat until he allowed her the freedom of her own conscience. When Charlotte came to the end she looked up at Royce. The contempt in his eyes was blistering, and his hands clenched in front of him in rage.

“I can only assume that you are threatening to make this a scandal if I do not pay you. Blackmail is an ugly and dangerous profession, and I would advise you to give me the letters and leave before you damn yourself by making threats.”

She saw the fear in him, and her own disgust hardened. She thought of Elsie Draper and a lifetime in Bedlam.

“I don’t want anything from you, Sir Garnet,” she said, her voice so grating it hurt her throat. “Except that you should know what you have done: you denied a woman the right to seek God in her own way and to follow her conscience in the manner of her belief. She would have obeyed you in all else! But you had to have everything, her mind and her soul. It would have been a scandal, wouldn’t it? ‘M.P.’s Wife Joins Extreme Religious Sect!’ Your political party would have dropped you, all your Society friends! So you locked her in her room until she should obey you. Only you had not realized how passionately she believed, how strong she was—that she would the rather than renounce the truth she believed—and she did die!

“Oh how you must have panicked then. You sent for your brother to write a death certificate calling it scarlet fever”—she would not let him interrupt when he tried, raising her voice to drown him out—“and he agreed to do it, to avoid a scandal. ‘M.P.’s Wife Commits Suicide in Locked Room! Did her husband drive her to it—or was she mad? Insanity in the family?’

“Only Elsie, loyal Elsie, wouldn’t agree; she wanted to tell the truth—so you had her committed to Bedlam! Seventeen years in a madhouse, seventeen years of living death. No wonder when she got out she came hunting for you with a razor! God help her! If she wasn’t mad when you put her in, she certainly was by the time she was allowed to leave!”

For many seconds of dreadful silence they stared at each other in mutual abhorrence. Then slowly his face changed. He caught a glimpse of what she meant, wild and heretical as it was to him, challenging all the rules he knew, overturning all order concerning the rights and obligations of the strong to protect the weak, to govern them for their own good—whatever their wishes. Then as he gazed at her those thoughts passed away; a conflict remained which Charlotte watched him wrestle with for several more minutes, while the clock on the mantelshelf ticked on, and far away someone dropped a tray in the kitchen.

“My wife was of fragile mind and disposition, madame. You did not know her. She was given to sudden fancies, and very easily prevailed upon by charlatans and people of feverish imagination. They sought money from her. That was not in her letters, perhaps, but it is so, and I was afraid of her being taken advantage of. I forbade them the house, as any man of responsibility would.”

He swallowed hard, composing himself with difficulty, banishing the horror he had caught such a dreadful sight of for an instant, forcing the words out.

“I misjudged her. She was more vulnerable to their blandishments than I realized, and in poor health, which affected her mind. I appreciate now that I should have called medical help for her long before I did. I imagined she was being willful, whereas she was in truth suffering delusions from fever, and the effects of designing people. I regret my actions; you do not know how I regretted them, how I have done over the years.”

Charlotte felt her mastery was slipping away, somehow he was twisting what she had said. “But you had no right to decide what she should believe!” she cried out. “No one has the right to choose for someone else! How dare you? How dare you presume to judge another person as to what they should want? It is not protection, it is ... it is ...” She searched for the word. “It is dominion! And it is
wrong!”

“It is the duty of the strong and the able to protect the weak, madame, and especially those born or given into their charge. And you will find that society will thank you little for seeking to make a profit out of my family’s misfortune.”

“And what about Elsie Draper? What about her life? You shut her away in a madhouse!”

A very slight smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“And do you contend, madame, that she was not mad?”

“Not when you put her away, no!” Charlotte was losing, and she saw it in his face, heard it in the stronger, calmer tone in his voice.

“You had better leave, madame. There is nothing for you here. If you write your book, and you mention the name of anyone in my family, I shall sue you for libel, and society will reject you for the cheap adventuress you are. Good day. My footman will show you out.” And he rang the bell.

Five minutes later Charlotte was sitting in the carriage as the horses plodded slowly through the freezing fog down Bethlehem Road and back towards the Westminster Bridge and the darkness of the river. She had failed. She had not done more than shake his complacency for a few moments—just that brief space when he had glimpsed the idea that he had been guilty of a monstrous oppression. Then self-justification had swept back and everything was as before; he was powerful, complacent, secure. To think that she had even been frightened! How needless—he had dismissed her without any emotion but disgust. He had not even asked for the letters!

They were coming down onto the bridge now; she heard the difference in the echo of the horses’ hooves. The fog was very dense and the ice slippery on the stones. She felt the occasional jolt as an animal lost and regained its footing.

What were they stopping for?

There was a rap on the carriage door and Forbes opened it.

“Ma’am, there is a gentleman wishes to speak to you.”

“A gentleman?”

“Yes. He said it was confidential, if you would not mind stepping out for a moment; it would be more decorous than his climbing in.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. I don’t recognize him, and to tell the truth, I wouldn’t recognize my own brother on a night like this. But I shall be right here, ma’am, only a few yards from you. He said to tell you it was about passing a new law guaranteeing freedom of conscience.”

Freedom of conscience? Could something she had said have touched Garnet Royce after all?

She stepped out, taking Forbes’s hand and steadying herself on the ice-glazed pavement. She saw the figure dimly, only a few feet away. It was Garnet Royce, muffled up against the bitter night. He must have relented as soon as she had left, and followed her carriage; they had traveled at no more than walking pace.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I realize I misjudged you. Your motives were not selfish, as I presumed. If I might have a moment of your time ... ?” He took a step away from the carriage to be out of earshot of Forbes and the coachman.

She followed, understanding his desire for privacy. It was a highly delicate matter.

“I was too zealous, I confess. I treated Naomi as if she were a child. You are right. An adult woman, whether married or single, should have the freedom to follow her conscience and to embrace whatever religious teaching she will.”

“You mentioned a law?” Could it be that after all something good would come of this? “Could such a law be framed?”

“I don’t know,” he said so softly she was obliged to move closer to hear him. “But I am certainly in a position to discover what can be done, and to introduce such a bill. If you would tell me what you think would be of benefit to all women, and yet still keep order and protect the weak and the ignorant from exploitation. It is not easy.”

She thought about it, trying frantically to come up with some sensible answer. A law? She had never thought of legal means. And yet he was very serious, his eyes with their clear silver-blue irises were bright in the triple lamplight and the halo of the fog. She could barely see even the outline of the carriage.

She looked back at him, and it was then she saw the sudden change in his expression, the gleam of passion as his lips twisted back from his teeth and his arm darted forward, his black-gloved hand clamping over her lips before she could cry out. She was being pushed backwards towards the balustrade and the long drop to the river!

She kicked as hard as she could, but it was useless. She tried to bite and only bruised her mouth. The balustrade was digging into her back. In a moment she would be lifted over and thrown into the void, then the freezing water would close over her, and darkness, and her lungs would fill to bursting. No one would survive the river tonight.

She swung her other hand round and jabbed for his eyes with outstretched fingers. There was a stifled yell of pain, muffled by the fog. He lunged forward to strike her but his feet gave way on the ice, and for a desperate second he hung on the balustrade, arms and legs flailing. Then, like a wounded bird, he went over and dropped into the long chasm of the night and the river. She did not even hear the splash as the water received him; the fog drowned it in choking silence.

She stood leaning on the rail, sick and shaking. The sweat of a few moments ago was now freezing on her skin. She felt too weak with fear and guilt even to stand without support.

“Ma’am!”

She stood rigid, not even breathing.

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

It was Forbes, looming up, invisible until he was almost on top of her.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded thin, unrecognizable.

“Are you sure, ma’am? You look ... unwell. Did the gentleman—trouble you? If he did—”

“No!” She swallowed hard. There seemed to be an obstruction in her throat, and her knees were wobbling so, she feared to walk. How could she explain what happened? Would they think she had pushed him over, murdered him? Who would believe her? And what was she guilty of anyway? Would they believe she had not tried after all to blackmail him, and pushed him over the bridge when he had threatened to expose her to the police?

“Ma’am, I think, if you will forgive me, that you should get back into the carriage and permit me to drive you back to Lady Cumming-Gould.”

“No—no thank you, Forbes. Will you take me to the Bow Street Police Station? I have an—an incident to report.”

“Yes ma’am, if that is what you wish.”

Gratefully she took his arm, and awkwardly, tripping over the step, she half fell inside the carriage and sat there shivering while they covered the short distance across the rest of the bridge and up the north side to Bow Street.

Forbes helped her out again, now severely anxious for her welfare, going with her past the duty sergeant and up the stairs to Micah Drummond’s office.

Drummond looked at her in alarm, then at Forbes. “Go and get Inspector Pitt!” he commanded. “Immediately, man!”

Forbes turned on his heel and ran down the stairs two at a time.

“Sit down, Mrs. Pitt.” Drummond half carried her to his own chair. “Now tell me what on earth has happened. Are you ill?”

She wanted above anything else to fall into Pitt’s arms and be held, to weep herself into exhaustion and to sleep, but first she must explain, now, before Pitt came. It was her fault, not his, and the very least she owed him was not to involve him in the blame, and to spare him the anguish of her explanation.

Slowly and carefully, between sips of brandy, which she loathed, and staring at Micah Drummond’s strained and gentle face, she recounted precisely what she had done, and how Garnet Royce had responded. She saw the reflection of fear and anger in his eyes, his perception of what would happen before she reached that part of the account herself, and the briefest flicker of admiration for what she had said.

She faltered when she told him how Royce had slipped on the ice and plunged over the balustrade into the river, but slowly, with her eyes shut, she found the words, though they were inadequate to express her terror and her guilt.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. What would he do to her? To Pitt? Had she jeopardized not only herself but Thomas also? She was bitterly ashamed and afraid.

Drummond held both her hands.

“There can be no doubt that he is dead,” he said slowly. “No one could live in the river in this weather, even if he survived the fall. The River Police will find him presently; maybe tomorrow, maybe later, depending on the tide. There are three conclusions they can come to: suicide, accident, or murder. You were the last person known to have seen him alive, so they will come to question you.”

She wanted to speak but her voice would not come. It was even worse than she had thought!

His hands tightened over hers. “It was an accident, which occurred in the course of his attempting to commit murder. It seems his dread of scandal was so great he would kill to keep his position. But we cannot prove that, and it would be wiser not to try. It would distress his family and achieve nothing. I think the best thing would be for me to go to the River Police and tell them that he received letters written by his late wife which distressed him profoundly, and we fear that they may have disturbed the balance of his mind—which is perfectly true. Then they may draw whatever conclusions they wish, but I imagine they will find it to have been suicide. That would be the best thing, in the circumstances. There is no need to tar his name with accusations that cannot be proved.”