Callander Square (4 page)

Pitt spared a thought for the unwitting maid who in a careless, garrulous moment might yield to childish insistence, or even petty blackmail, and thus lose home and job at one blow. Childhood would have given her no such protection from the unpleasant realities of life.

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed sadly. “But there are other servants in the square, ma’am; and other children.”

Instead of the anger he had expected, she merely looked suddenly tired.

“Of course, Mr.—Pitt, did you say? And children will tell each other such gruesome stories. Still, I’m sure you will not frighten anyone unnecessarily. Do you have children of your own?”

“Not yet, ma’am. My wife is expecting our first.” He said it with a ridiculous sense of pride and waited for her approval.

“I hope everything goes well with her.” There was no light in her face. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

He was at a loss, deflated.

“No, thank you. I shall almost certainly have to return; it may take us a long time to solve it, if we ever do. But that is all for today.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Jenkins will show you to the door.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He bowed very slightly and went out to the waiting butler and the front door into the leafy square.

The Doran house was utterly different from the other houses in the square. It was unbelievably cluttered with photographs, embroidery, flowers dried, cased in glass, pressed, growing in pots, and even some fresh and arranged in painted vases. There were also at least three birds in cages, all hung with fringes and bells.

The door was opened by a middle-aged parlormaid. This one was an exception to the generality: by no twist of the imagination could she have been chosen for her looks; except that when she opened her mouth her teeth were perfect, and her voice was as rich and smooth as Devon cream.

“We’ve been expecting you,” she said calmly, with a faint southwestern distortion of the vowels. “Miss Laetitia and Miss Georgiana are taking tea. No doubt you will be wanting to speak to them first, as a matter of course.” She did not seem to require an answer to that, and turned away, leaving him to close the door and follow her into the inner recesses.

Laetitia and Georgiana were indeed taking tea. Georgiana was displayed fragilely on a chaise longue, bony as a halfpenny rabbit, and dressed in delicious mauves and grays. Tea was balanced on a three-toed, piecrust table at her elbow. She looked at Pitt without displeasure.

“So you are the policeman? What an odd-looking creature you are, to be sure. Pray do not be vulgar with me. I am extremely delicate. I suffer.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Pitt controlled his face with an effort. “I hope to disturb you very little.”

“You have already disturbed me, but I shall put up with it in good grace, in the name of necessity. I am Georgiana Duff. This,” she pointed to a slightly younger, better-upholstered version of herself in the other chair, “is my sister, Laetitia Doran. She is the one to have the misfortune, or the ill-judgment, to own a house in such a disastrous place; so you had better address your remarks to her.”

Pitt turned to Laetitia.

“Indeed, Mrs. Doran, my apologies again; but owing to the tragic discovery in the gardens, I am sure you understand it is necessary for us to question the servants, especially the younger, female servants, in all the houses that face onto the square.”

Laetitia blinked.

“Of course,” Georgiana said sharply. “Is that all you’ve come to say?”

“To ask your permission to speak to your servants,” Pitt replied. Georgiana snorted. “You’ll do it anyway!”

“I would prefer to do it with your permission, ma’am.”

“Don’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ I don’t like it. And don’t stand there towering over me. You make me feel quite giddy. Sit down, or I shall faint!”

Pitt sat down, stifling a smile.

“Thank you. Have I your permission to interview your servants?” he looked at Laetitia.

“Yes, yes I suppose so,” she said uncomfortably. “Please endeavor not to upset them. It is so hard to replace a servant satisfactorily these days. And poor Georgiana must be properly looked after.”

Pitt privately thought that “poor Georgiana” would see to it herself that, come hell or high water, she would be properly looked after.

“Of course,” he stood up again and moved to the door before Georgiana had time to feel affected by his presence. “Have you had any servants dismissed in the last half year, young women who have left the house?”

“None,” Laetitia said quickly. “We have been exactly as we are for years! Years and years!”

“You have no children, ma’am? Daughters who have married and taken a lady’s maid with them?”

“None at all!”

“Thank you. I shan’t need to disturb you again,” he went out and closed the door softly.

He remained in the Doran house for two hours, but he learned nothing there either.

Charlotte was perfectly correct, Emily was beginning to find that the fashionable life lacked something, a certain bite, for which she was increasingly developing a taste. Beyond question, she enjoyed her life; it was the ideal mode of existence for her. When she and Charlotte were still at home in Cater Street with Mama and Papa, when poor Sarah was alive, Emily had known precisely what suited her. She had determined from very early in their acquaintance that she would marry Lord George Ashworth; and a very satisfactory arrangement it had proved. Of course George had his faults, but then what man did not? His overriding virtue was that he appreciated her, and was constantly both generous and civil; and he was undoubtedly handsome to look at, and witty when he chose. It would be pleasant if he would gamble a little less, it was a shocking waste of money. But if he flirted, he was eminently discreet about it, and he very seldom went out without inviting Emily also; and he did not nag her as to her occupations or the female society she kept. And that was a considerable point in his favor. Emily knew any number of wives who were forever being left at home while their husbands went to places wholly unsuitable for a woman of any decency at all, and yet criticized them for extravagance or for the afternoon parties they themselves put on.

But undeniably there was a certain lack, a purposelessness to her present round. Since she was Lady Ashworth, she had already done with relative ease all the social climbing she desired, at least for the moment. Charlotte’s disgusting mystery might prove to be just the diversion she required, and it had the additional advantage of being genuinely helpful to someone, if the wretched girl were ever found!

And also, she was very fond of her sister. Of course Charlotte was socially impossible! It would never do to introduce her to the afternoons, the dinners, and the balls she herself attended; although on some of the more pompous occasions she had frequently found it passing through her mind to wonder what Charlotte might have said, had she been there. This affair would also give her an opportunity for them to do something together, which in itself would be pleasant.

When George returned, in time to change for dinner, she abandoned her dignity and scampered up the stairs after him. He turned at the top in surprise.

“What’s the matter?”

“I want to meet Christina Balantyne,” she said immediately.

“Tonight?” He was incredulous, a smile on his elegant mouth. “She’s not all that amusing, I assure you!”

“I don’t want to be amused. I want to be invited to her house, or at least to be able to call without obviously seeking her acquaintance.”

“Whatever for?” His eyebrows went up over his dark eyes. “Is it Augusta you want to meet? Very grand, Augusta. Her father was a duke, and she’s lived up to it all her life; not that it is any effort, I think.”

It was not the reason, but it seemed an excellent explanation to adopt.

“Yes, I would. Please, George?” she smiled at him frankly.

“You’ll be disappointed. You won’t like her,” he looked down with a faint frown.

“I don’t care about liking her, I just want to be able to call!”

“Why?”

“George, I don’t press you about your friends at White’s, or Boodle’s, or wherever it is; let me entertain myself by calling upon whom I please.” She smiled at him with a mixture of charm, because she genuinely liked him, and honesty, because the pretense between them was wholly one of manners, and there was no real deception.

He patted her on the cheek and kissed her.

“It should be easy enough to look up Brandy Balantyne, and he’s an amiable fellow. In fact he’s the best of his family, by a long way. You’ll be disappointed in the others, I warn you!”

“Maybe,” she smiled seraphically, utterly satisfied. “But I wish to discover for myself.”

It was three days before Emily’s plans bore fruit and she was able to dress carefully in muted browns with gold trimmings and fur muff against the cold, and set out to call upon Christina Balantyne. Her attire seemed to her precisely the right mixture of dignity and assurance, coupled with the quality of friendliness that a lady of title could afford to extend toward someone who was very nearly of her own social rank, but not quite. She had also taken the trouble to ascertain that Christina would be at home this afternoon: and that had required some delicate detective work through her lady’s maid, who just happened to have scraped an acquaintance with the lady’s maid of a certain Susanna Barclay, who was in the habit of calling at Callander Square herself. Indeed, there lay more in common between Emily and Mr. Pitt than Pitt would have imagined.

Emily duly bade her carriage with its footmen wait, and presented herself at the door of the Balantynes’ house at quarter to four. It was opened by the parlormaid, as was the custom in the afternoon. Emily smiled charmingly, took her card from its ivory case, and held it out in an elegantly gloved little hand. She was proud of her hands.

The parlormaid took it, read it without appearing to, and returned the smile.

“If your ladyship would be pleased to come in, Lady Augusta and Miss Christina are receiving in the withdrawing room.” It was an unusually voluble greeting, and could only be accounted for by the fact that Emily was a viscountess, and had not called before, therefore her visit in person, instead of merely leaving a card, was something of an honor; and a good parlormaid was as well versed in the niceties of social distinctions as her mistress.

She did not knock at the door, such would have been considered vulgar, but pushed it open and announced Emily.

“Lady Ashworth.”

Emily was agog with curiosity, but naturally she concealed it with a magnificent dignity. She sailed into the room looking neither to right nor left, holding out her hand. There was a slight flutter among the half dozen or so ladies present, a natural interest quickly stifled by protocol. It was not done to display such an unsophisticated emotion.

Lady Augusta remained seated.

“How charming,” she said with a slight lift in her voice. “Pray do sit down, Lady Ashworth. So gracious of you to call.”

Emily sat down, arranging her skirt almost absently, but precisely to its best advantage.

“I’m sure we have many mutual friends,” Emily said noncommittally. “It must be only chance that we have not met before.”

“Indeed,” Augusta would not commit herself either. “I know you are acquainted with my daughter, Christina.” It was a statement. Emily looked across at the pretty face of Christina with its soft little chin and full lips. It was an unusual face; far more important than beauty, it had individuality, and considerable provocation, a face that men would no doubt find attractive. It promised both appetite and yielding. But then men were incredibly foolish where women were concerned. Emily could see at a glance the hardness in the balance of the pert nose and the curve of the lips. A taker, not a giver, Emily judged. She stored her decision, and turned to the next woman to whom Augusta was already directing her.

“Lady Carlton,” Augusta was saying. “Sir Robert is in the government, you know, the Foreign Office.”

Emily smiled across. This woman was entirely different, wide-mouthed, less pretty, warmer. But now her hands were knotted in her lap, and there were the finest of lines round her eyes and mouth. She was older than Christina, perhaps even in her middle thirties, and there was a nervousness, a tension underlying the pleasantness. She and Emily exchanged inclinations of the head and a polite recognition. Others were introduced and conversation began; first about the weather, which was exceptionally gentle for late October, then about fashion, and thence into the truly interesting area of gossip. Tea was served at four o’clock, brought in by the parlormaid and poured by Lady Augusta.

Emily contrived to engage herself with Christina and Euphemia Carlton. Without difficulty the subject of the bodies in the square was introduced.

“Quite shocking,” Euphemia shivered. “Poor little souls.” A bleak look passed over her face.

“I daresay they knew nothing about it,” Christina answered realistically. “I understand they were newborn. In fact they may even have been born dead.”

“They still had souls,” Euphemia stared into the distance.

Emily felt a quick flicker of excitement, and a peculiar distress. Could this be it, so soon, so very easily? Was it guilt in Euphemia Carlton’s face? Find out more about her. Why should she have done such a fearful thing? Indeed, why should any married woman of wealth and quality? As soon as possible she must ask Charlotte more about the babies. Had they been black, or of some other startling appearance that would betray infidelity?

“I assume you do not know about our little piece of horror,” Christina was speaking again.

“I beg your pardon?” Emily turned an innocent face to her.

“Our horror,” Christina repeated. “The bodies buried in the square.”

“Only the few fragments you have mentioned,” Emily lied without an atom of compunction. “Pray, if it does not distress you, oblige me with a little information.” It was not, of course, that she imagined Christina knew anything that Charlotte had not already told her, indeed less; but she wished to see Euphemia’s reaction to the retelling, and of course Christina’s, if it were of any note.