Belgrave Square (25 page)

“Oh dear. How unfortunate,” she said meaninglessly, aware how inadequate it sounded.

Emily folded her napkin and laid it on the table.

“It has been the most charming afternoon,” she said with a smile at each of them. “It is time we excused ourselves and went home to change for the evening.”

“Of course.” Both Fitz and James Hilliard rose to their feet. Good-byes were said and Emily and Charlotte departed to their carriage.

Charlotte reached her own home at nearly six o’clock and swept in to find Gracie preparing dinner and giving Jemima and Daniel their supper at the same time. She looked tired
and harassed, her hair falling out of her cap, her sleeves rolled up, her face flushed.

Charlotte was smitten with instant guilt, aware how long she had been away, and that she had neglected her duties. It did not help at all when Pitt came home shortly afterwards and, on seeing the state of the kitchen, Charlotte’s gloriously piled hair and flushed face, and Gracie looking weary and untidy, he lost his temper.

“What the devil is going on?” he demanded, staring at Gracie then at Charlotte. “Where have you been?”

There was no point in lying. He would find out, and she was no good at it anyway, not to him.

“At the Royal Academy exhibition—”

His face was bleak, the warmth and tenderness vanished. His eyebrows rose.

“Indeed? And for what purpose did you go there?”

For a wild moment she thought of saying “To look at the pictures,” then saw his eyes and knew it was not the moment for levity.

“Just to accompany Emily,” she said very quietly.

“And left Gracie here to do your work!” he snapped. “I don’t admire your selfishness, Charlotte.”

It was the most cutting thing he could have said, and she had no answer to it. The only way she could defend her dignity was to force herself into sufficient anger to stop herself from crying.

Supper was eaten in miserable silence. Gracie had gone upstairs, sniffing with unhappiness at the unusual conflict in what she regarded as her own home, and in a curious sense, her family.

Afterwards, Charlotte sat in her chair in the parlor opposite Pitt and pretended to be sewing, but she had no pleasure in it, and accomplished nothing. She knew she had been selfish, thinking only of the glamour and the excitement, not of her children and house, where she should have been, or at the very least of her responsibility.

Pitt sat quietly reading a newspaper, without once looking over it at her.

At bedtime she went upstairs alone, more crushingly miserable than she could remember being for a year or more.

She took off her dress and hung it up, then extricated the
pins from her hair and let it fall over her shoulders without the usual sensual pleasure, knowing that Pitt loved it. Strange how all the warmth and light could go out of everything just because she felt such a gulf between them. Odelia Morden’s face kept coming back into her mind as she climbed into bed, feeling the sheets chill on her skin. She could see her so clearly, the look of sudden, wounded surprise as she saw Fitz’s eyes on Fanny Hilliard, heard them laugh together, and realized that something was slipping away from her and she was powerless to cling onto it. There was a warmth between Fitz and Fanny Hilliard, an ease of understanding, laughter at the same things. Odelia would never be part of it. Today Charlotte had seen the first wing of loneliness touch her, and a premonition of loss. Whatever happened in the future, Odelia had become aware that something precious was beyond her reach.

And Charlotte had thought her so complacent. She was just at the beginning of pain.

Aunt Vespasia had said it was Charlotte who was too satisfied, not nurturing what was precious.

Pitt came to bed in the dark, lying next to her but apart, his back towards her.

She had no idea whether he was asleep or not, or what he was thinking. Did he really feel she was totally selfish? Surely he knew her better than that—after all these years. Could he not understand how much the opera had meant to her, and that she had gone to the exhibition only to keep Emily company?

No. He knew how it had thrilled her. She had seen that in his face. And he knew how long she had waited—until Emily took them.

Emily took them—not Pitt.

She reached out her hand and touched him.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I should have thought—and I didn’t.”

For seconds nothing happened. She began to think he was asleep. Then slowly he moved over and touched her fingertips, saying nothing.

Tears of relief filled her eyes and she wriggled down to be comfortable, and at last composed herself to go to sleep.

6

P
ITT LEFT THE HOUSE
the following day still feeling depressed in spirit. He and Charlotte had been civil over the breakfast table, but the old warmth was not there. The episode of the exhibition could not easily be repaired. Some of the sweetness had gone out of his life lately, the lift in his spirits as he turned towards home at the end of the day, no matter how ragged or disappointing it had been. It was not that Charlotte was not always there. That he understood and accepted. She had often spent time with Emily, or even very occasionally with her mother. And goodness knows he had long ago stopped fighting against her joining in his cases because it was unseemly, or even dangerous. In fact he was proud of her abilities to judge people he would never know except from an outside view.

It was not that. As he trudged along the dusty pavement towards the main street where he could get an omnibus, he was honest enough to admit it was because she was stepping into Emily’s world, and enjoying it. And it had been her world until she married him. It would have remained hers, had she chosen someone suited to her own social position, and her family’s expectations.

That was it. He felt guilty—and shut out. He had been invited to the opera as well, of course. Emily would never have excluded him. And he had enjoyed it—at least some of it. He did not care for the music a great deal. But then neither
had most of the people who were there. It was a social event for them, not an artistic one. Everyone knew everyone else, if not in person then by repute.

The omnibus drew to a halt and he stepped on, choosing to climb the open spiral steps at the back up onto the top deck. There were plenty of seats available and he sat alone, still deep in thought.

He had looked at Charlotte more than at the stage. He had never seen her more beautiful, her hair shining and coiled, dressed by Emily’s maid, her face flushed with excitement, her eyes bright. She had loved it. That was what hurt. He would love to have been the one who took her. But all he could ever manage would be once, and it would be a great occasion. Now she had already been, and if Emily chose, would go again, as often as she wished. The top of the omnibus was open and the sun was warm on his face.

He wanted Jack Radley to succeed in Parliament, not only for Jack’s own sake, because he liked him, and for Emily, but for the good he might do. But it was not the same as when Charlotte and Emily were meddling in one of his cases and he felt as if he had a part in it. There was no way he could help Jack. In fact his relationship would more likely be a hindrance, were it known.

That was it, not very attractive, not easy to admit, but he was jealous.

The omnibus halted again for a few moments, then jerked forward as the horses began up a slight gradient, pulling hard.

On the other hand, he was justified in being angry. Charlotte had no business to go off in the afternoon simply to look at an exhibition of pictures, leaving poor Gracie to do the housework and prepare the dinner.

Which did nothing to make him feel better. Being justified was a cold thing.

He arrived at the Clerkenwell police station in a poor mood and went straight through to the small back office. Innes’s sharp, intelligent face was little cheer. This case was every bit as unpleasant and intractable as he had feared at the outset. There were too many elements in it that worried him. How had Byam heard of the murder so quickly? What was there in it that distressed Micah Drummond, and yet he could
not speak of it and kept on through his embarrassment and obvious discomfort? Why had William Weems sat behind his desk and allowed someone to bring in a gun? A gun capable of firing the gold pieces would have to be a muzzle loader. Who walks through the streets carrying such a thing? It argued a very careful premeditation. Where were the incriminating papers and the letter Byam had said were there? If Byam was guilty, and he had removed them, why had he bothered to call Drummond and admit any connection at all? And what about Addison Carswell?

“Mornin’ sir,” Innes said cheerfully. “Lovely day again.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed dourly. “Going to be hot.”

“Got anything further?” Innes was relentlessly optimistic, although his quick eyes had taken in Pitt’s expression. “Any of them other people look hopeful? We got nothing ’ere, an’ I can’t ’elp wonderin’ ’ow any o’ these people would get ’old o’ the kind o’ gun that killed the poor devil.” He shrugged and put his hands in his pockets, a comfortable and informal gesture.

“I wish we could find that, Mr. Pitt,” he said with a frown. “I’d feel a lot closer if we could. I bin ’round all the cabbies, like you said, but no one remembers a fare carryin’ anything like a gun big enough ter blow Weems’s ’ead off.” He screwed up his face. “You sure it couldn’t ’a bin the one wot was already there on the wall? They couldn’t ’a used it then taken the pin down after, to confuse us, like?”

“No,” Pitt said grimly. “It was filed down and there was a patina of use on the metal. You don’t fake that in a few minutes. And who would think to bring a file—or hang around with that corpse to use it?”

Innes shrugged. “Yer right. It don’t make no sense. an’ there weren’t ’anging space fer another gun, nor there weren’t one moved on the wall, I looked fer that.”

“Did we ask the cleaning woman—what’s her name?”

“Mrs. Cairns.”

“Did we ask her if she’d seen another gun any time?”

“Yes—she said she ’adn’t seen nothing—but I don’t know whether to believe ’er or not. She’d no love fer ’im, as she don’t want ter get involved with any part of it.”

“You think she’d lie?” Pitt sat on the windowsill, this time leaving the chair for Innes, if he wished.

“I think she’d deliberately forget,” Innes said judiciously. “The local opinion is pretty well on the side of ’oever done it. ’E weren’t liked, weren’t Mr. Weems.”

“What a surprise,” Pitt said sarcastically. “Still, I think I’ll go and take another look at his rooms. Are all the papers still there?”

“Yes sir. Place is locked. I’ll get the key. Mind, I’m beginning ter think it were one o’ your nobs. Sorry sir, but I do.”

“So do I,” Pitt admitted. “But I’m often surprised.” He stood up again. “Come on—get that key and we’ll look again.”

Half an hour later they were methodically sorting through sheets of paper and putting them from one pile to another, uncertain what they were looking for. They found the closed office with its stale air, and their knowledge of what was done there, heavily oppressive, even to the rise of nausea if they stopped to imagine that night, the despair, the violence and the sudden horror of blood, an act irretrievable, and the fear afterwards.

“Got it!” Innes said suddenly in triumph, his voice ringing out in the heavy silence. “ ’Ere!” He held up a sheet of paper with a name in capitals on the top, and figures and dates and amounts all down it, finishing at the bottom with a line of handwriting.

“What?” Pitt said, puzzled as to what it could be and afraid to hope.

“ ’Ere!” Innes was not to be dampened in his victory. “Look!” He thrust the paper forward. “Walter ’Opcroft, paid ’is last installment of interest in ’is debt with a blunderbuss—same day as Weems was shot!” His voice rose with conviction. “It must ’a bin ’ere in the office when ’is murderer came! ’E just took advantage of it! Stands ter reason.” His face was beaming.

Pitt straightened up from the drawers where he had been sifting through papers yet again. “And what?” He frowned. “He and Weems had a quarrel and he saw the blunderbuss, went to the powder boxes, tipped the powder into the breach, picked up the gold coins from the desk, or wherever they were, loaded them, and then shot half Weems’s head off? What was Weems doing?”