Cardington Crescent (15 page)

Already there, standing in the middle of the carpet, was a girl of about nineteen, very thin under her muslin dress, her vivid red hair piled untidily, her wide, delicate mouth grave. She smiled as soon as she saw Charlotte.

“You must be Emily’s sister,” she said immediately. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” She looked down, then up again, ruefully. “Because I don’t know what to do—even what to say—”

Neither do I, Charlotte thought painfully. Everything sounds banal and insincere. But that was no excuse; even clumsy help was better than ignoring grief, running away as if it were a disease and you were afraid of being contaminated.

“I’m Anastasia March,” the girl went on. “But please call me Tassie.”

“I’m Charlotte Pitt.”

“Yes, I know. Grandmama said you’d be coming.” She pulled a little face. Charlotte had already been given Grandmama’s opinion of that.

Further conversation was prevented by the doors opening again and William and Sybilla March coming in; she first, dressed in glittering black, lace around the smooth, white throat; he a step behind. Charlotte could see instantly how George had been fascinated with her. She had a vibrancy even in repose that Emily did not, an air of mystery and intensity that would intrigue many men. She did not need to do anything—it was there in her face, the dark, wide eyes, the curve of her mouth, the richness of her figure. Charlotte could well imagine how hard Emily had had to work, how unceasing her charm, how tight her self-control, to win George’s attention back again. No wonder Jack Radley had been drawn! But how careless had Emily been, with her mind solely on George? Could she have given away far more than she intended, and been too preoccupied to notice how seriously he had taken her advances?

And William March, the so slightly complacent husband—his face was anything but uncaring. His features were sensitive, ascetic; thin nose, chiseled mouth. Yet there was passion of some sort within him, even if it was more complex than simple adoration or a fire in the blood. He might despise both of those, and yet be just as much their victim.

Her contemplation was cut off by Eustace March himself sweeping in, immaculately dressed, his round eyes flicking from one to another, seeing who was absent, assuring himself that all was as he wished it. His gaze stopped on Charlotte. He seemed already to have made up his mind how he was going to treat her, and his smile was unctuous and confident.

“I am Eustace March. Most fortunate you were able to come, my dear Mrs. Pitt. Very fitting. Poor Emily needs someone who knows her. We shall do our best, of course, but we cannot be the same as her own family. Most suitable that you should be here.” His eyes flicked towards Sybilla, and he gave a slight, satisfied smile. “Most suitable,” he repeated.

The door opened again and the only unrelated guest came in, the one who troubled Charlotte the most. Jack Radley. As soon as she saw him standing elegantly just inside the arch of the lintel, she understood more of the problem than she had before, and felt the coldness grow inside her. It was not so much that he was handsome—although his eyes were amazing—as that he had a grace and a vitality that demanded a woman’s attention. No doubt he was totally aware of the fact; his charm was his primary asset, and he had sufficient intelligence to make the best possible use of it. Meeting his gaze across the short space of the green carpet, she could understand only too well how Emily had used him as a foil against which to win George’s attention again. A flirtation with the man might be enormous fun, and all too believable. Only it might prove more addictive than she had foreseen—and far harder to end than to begin. Perhaps after the heady excitement of a forbidden romance, the exhilaration of the game superbly played, George, familiar and predictable, would be a prize less worth the winning. Might Emily, perhaps without acknowledging it, have been willing to continue the affair? And had Jack Radley seen it as his chance at last for a wife prettier and far, far richer than Tassie March?

It was an ugly thought, but now that it was in her brain it was ineradicable without another solution to force it out, to disprove it beyond the smallest doubt.

She glanced at Eustace, standing with his feet a little apart, solid and satisfied, his hands clasped behind his back. Whatever nervousness he might feel was under control. He must have convinced himself he was in charge again. He was the patriarch leading his family through a crisis; everyone would look to him, and he would rise to the occasion. Women would lean on him, confide in him, rest on his strength; men would admire him, envy him. After all, death is a part of life. It must be dealt with with courage and decorum—and he had not been overfond of George.

She looked next at Tassie, as unlike her father as it was possible to be. She was painfully slender where he was thick, broad-boned; vivid and alive where he was innately immovable, settled and sure.

Did he really want to marry Tassie to Jack Radley in order to purchase himself the ultimate respectability of a title through the Radley family connections, as Emily had said in her letters? Looking at him now it seemed eminently likely. Although again, it could be no more than the desire of any good father to see his daughter escape the prison of home, to find another man to provide her with an establishment of her own when he no longer could, and with the social status of wife, and that goal and haven of all women, a family.

Was it what Tassie wanted?

Charlotte cast her mind back to the time when she had been taken with other young women of her age to parties, balls, and soirées in desperate hope of catching the right husband. If one were well-born enough to “come out,” it was a disaster to finish the Season unbetrothed, the mark of social failure. No one married unless the arrangement were suitable, the proposed partner acceptable to one’s family. Very seldom did one know the person, except in the most perfunctory way; it was impossible to spend time alone together or to speak of anything but trivialities. And once a betrothal was announced it was rarely broken, and only with difficulty and subsequent speculation of scandal.

But perhaps anything was better than life in perpetual bondage, first to old Mrs. March and then to Eustace. He looked robust enough to live another thirty years.

The introductions had been effected and she had barely noticed. Now Eustace was chunnering on about his emotions, rocking slightly back and forth and holding his strong, square, and immaculately manicured hands together.

“We offer you our condolences, my dear Mrs. Pitt. It grieves me that there is nothing we can do to be of comfort to you.” He was making a statement of fact, distancing himself and his family from the affair. He did not mean to become any further involved, and he was making sure Charlotte understood.

But Charlotte was here to investigate and she had no compunction at all. She might feel profound pity, perhaps even for Eustace, before, all this was over; but she could not afford such tenderness now, when Emily was on the edge of such danger. They hanged women as easily as men for committing murder, and that thought drove all others from her mind.

She smiled sweetly up at Eustace. “I am sure you underestimate yourself, Mr. March. From Emily’s letters I believe you are a man of the greatest ability, who would rise to assume natural leadership in a crisis. Just the sort of man any woman would turn to when the situation overwhelms her.” She saw the blood rise in his face till he was scarlet to the eyes. She was describing him precisely as he wished to be seen—at any time but this! “And of course your loyalty to your family is beyond anyone to question,” she finished.

Eustace drew a shuddering breath, and let it out with a splutter.

Tassie stared aghast, not seeing the irony, and Sybilla sneezed repeatedly into a lace handkerchief.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” Aunt Vespasia said from the doorway, her eyes for an instant catching some of their old fire. “I had no idea Emily had written so well of Eustace. How charming.”

Some flicker of movement made Charlotte turn, and she caught a glimpse of black hatred on William’s face that was so swiftly removed she was half convinced it was a trick of the light, a reflection of the gas lamp in his eyes. Tassie moved a step closer to him as if to touch her fingers to his arm, but changed her mind.

“Family loyalty is a wonderful thing,” Sybilla remarked with an expression that could have meant anything at all, except what it said. “I expect a tragedy like this will show us where our true friends really are.”

“I am sure,” Charlotte agreed, looking at no one, “we shall discover depths in each other we had not dreamed of.”

Eustace choked, Jack Radley’s eyes opened so wide he seemed transfixed, and old Mrs. March threw the door open so violently it jarred against the wall and bruised the paper.

Dinner was grim, conducted mostly in silence, since Mrs. March chose to freeze any conversation at birth by staring fixedly at whoever spoke. Afterwards she declared that in view of the day’s events it would be suitable if everyone retired early. She glowered at Eustace and then at Jack Radley so they could not possibly escape her meaning; then she rose and commanded the ladies to follow her. They trooped obediently to sit for an insufferable hour in the pink boudoir before excusing themselves and going upstairs.

Emily had gone back to her own room, because naturally Vespasia required hers for herself. Lying hot and tangled in George’s bed in the dressing room, Charlotte was acutely aware of her, wondering if she should get up and go to her, or if it was one of those times when Emily needed to be alone, to work through the stages of her grief as she must.

She woke for the final time a little late to find the air heavy and humid and the room full of white, flat light. There was a maid standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. A hideous flood of memory swamped Charlotte, not only of where she was and that George was dead, but that he had had poisoned coffee on his morning tray. For a moment the thought of sitting here in this same bed and drinking tea was intolerable. She opened her mouth to say something angry, then saw that it was the short, sensible figure of Digby, and the protest died.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Digby set the tray down and drew the curtains. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’ll be good for you.” She did not allow any question into her tone. It was clearly an order, possibly originating with Great-aunt Vespasia.

Charlotte sat up, blinking. Her eyes were gritty, her head ached, and she longed for the luxury of hot, clean-tasting tea. “Have you seen Lady Ashworth this morning?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. The mistress gave her some laudanum last night and said I was to leave her till ten at the soonest and then take her breakfast in. No doubt you’ll be wanting to take yours downstairs with the family.” Again it was not a question. In fact, it was the last thing Charlotte felt like, but it was clearly a matter of duty. And she could certainly be of no service to Emily lying here in bed.

Breakfast was another almost silent meal taken in a room sharply chilly, since Eustace had preceded them and thrown all the windows open, and no one dared to close them while he was still there, plowing his way with unabated appetite through porridge, bacon, kedgeree, muffins, and toast and marmalade.

Afterwards Charlotte excused herself and went to the morning room, where she wrote letters for Emily, informing various more distant members of the family of George’s death. That at least would save Emily some pain.

By eleven she had completed all she could think of, and Emily was still not down, so she decided to begin her pursuit in earnest.

She had intended to speak to William, to see if she could form a clearer impression of him and confirm in her own mind what that extraordinary expression she had glimpsed the evening before might have been. She learned from the parlormaid that he was likely to be in his painting studio at the far end of the conservatory, and that the police were in the house again—not the inspector who had been the day before, but the constable—and the whole kitchen was set on its ears by his probing and prying into all sorts that was none of his affair. Cook was beside herself, and the scullery maid was in tears; the bootboy’s eyes were bulging out like organ stops, the housekeeper had never been so insulted in all her life, and the in-between maid was giving notice.

However, she did not get as far as the studio, because just inside the entrance of the conservatory she met with Sybilla, standing silent and motionless staring at a camellia bush. Charlotte gathered her wits and availed herself of this opportunity instead.

“One could almost imagine oneself out of England altogether,” she observed pleasantly.

Sybilla was jerked out of her reverie and struggled to find a civil reply to such a banal remark. “Indeed one could.”

There were lilies blooming a few feet away; their succulent flesh reminded Charlotte of bloodless faces. She did not know how long they would be alone there. She must use the time, and she fancied Sybilla was too intelligent for any oblique approach to succeed. Surprise just might.

“Was George in love with you?” she asked candidly.

Sybilla stood frozen for so long Charlotte could hear the condensation dripping from the top leaves near the roof onto the ones below. The fact that she did not instantly deny it was important in itself. Was she debating the truth with herself, or merely the safety of answering? Surely they must all know by now that it was murder, and have expected the question.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “I am tempted to say, Mrs. Pitt, that it is a private matter, and none of your concern. But I suppose that since Emily is your sister, you cannot help caring.” She swung round to face Charlotte, her eyes wide, her smile vulnerable and curiously bitter. “I cannot answer for him, and I am sure you don’t expect me to repeat everything he said to me. But Emily was jealous, that is undoubted. She also carried it superbly.”

Looking at her, Charlotte was aware of intense emotions inside her, of the capability for passion and for pain. She could not possibly dislike her as she had intended.

“I apologize for asking,” she said brittlely. “I know it sounds gauche.”