Cardington Crescent (37 page)

The old woman swung round on him, opening her mouth, but then she registered the expression on his face and closed it again.

“I, for one, don’t know that it was Emily,” he went on. “The motive of jealousy you credit to her might equally well do for me, although in fact it doesn’t. The affair was trivial at best, and over with anyway, which both Emily and I knew. You may not have, but then it was none of your business.” He stopped and took a sip from his glass of water; his voice was rough, as though his throat ached. “And the other motive you imagine for her, that of an infatuation with Jack; while quite believable—she would certainly not be his first conquest—”

“William!” Eustace shouted, banging his hand flat on the table to make as much noise as possible and sending the silver and crockery jumping. “This conversation is in the worst possible taste. We are all prepared to allow your grief some latitude, but this is beyond bearing!”

William stared back at him with burning contempt, his eyes brilliant, his mouth pinched with violent emotion long held in and hidden.

“Taste is a personal thing, Father. I find many of your conversations as ‘distasteful’ as anything I have ever said in my life. I frequently find your hypocrisy quite as obscene as all the vulgar picture postcards of naked women. They, at least, are honest.”

Eustace gasped, but was not quick enough to stem the tide of anger. He was aware of Charlotte next to him, because she had pushed out her foot under the table to kick him fairly sharply on the ankle. The ridiculous scene under Sybilla’s bed was not allowed to fade for a moment from his memory. He clenched his teeth and remained silent.

“But as a motive it is hardly worth murder,” William went on. “She could perfectly well have had Jack as well, if she had wanted him—and there is no evidence that she did. Whereas, on the contrary, if he had wanted her—or to be more accurate, George’s money, which she inherits—then he had an excellent reason for murdering George.”

Emily sat rigid, acutely aware of Jack Radley beside her, conscious that he had stiffened in his seat. But was it guilt, or embarrassment, or simply fear? Innocent people were hanged sometimes. Emily herself was afraid; why should not he be?

But William was not finished. “Personally,” he went on, “I favor Father. He had excellent reasons, which just in case he is innocent, I shall not discuss.”

There was total silence round the table, Vespasia set down her knife and fork, touching her napkin delicately to her mouth once and lying it aside. She looked at William and then down at the tablecloth, but she said nothing.

Eustace was pale and Charlotte could see his fists were clenched in his lap. The veins stood out on his neck till she feared his collar would strangle him, but he also did not speak.

Tassie hid her face. Mrs. March was scarlet, but for some reason afraid to break the silence. Perhaps nothing she dared say was adequate to her outrage.

Jack Radley looked wretched and acutely embarrassed, the only time Charlotte had seen his composure completely shattered. Although she was perfectly aware how likely it was that he was guilty—not only of double murder but of the most callous abuse of a woman’s emotions, and that he had fully intended to abuse them further—still she liked him better for seeing him at a loss. It gave him a reality beneath the charming smile and the marvelous eyes.

Emily stared straight ahead of her.

In the end it was the footman with the next course who broke the silence, and the meal proceeded with a saddle of mutton no one tasted and a trivial conversation no one could have recalled a moment after it was spoken.

After the dessert Emily excused herself and retired to the rustic seat in the garden, not because it was a pleasant day—indeed it was overcast and seemed very likely to rain—but because she felt it her best chance of being alone, and there was no one whose company she desired.

Tomorrow was Sybilla’s funeral; she stayed because she wished to attend it. Now that Sybilla was dead, all Emily’s hatred of her had vanished. The ridiculous affair with George had receded to a far different proportion of importance. He had regretted it. He had been robbed of the chance to undo it, so she would wipe it out for him, cherishing all the other memories that were good. They had shared a great deal; if she allowed Sybilla to rob her of all those things, then she was a fool, and she deserved to lose them.

She had not seen Charlotte alone since Pitt called that morning, except for an instant as they came through the hall towards the dining room. But that had been enough to learn that he still had little idea who had murdered George, or why. Presumably it was the same person who had then killed Sybilla. She must have known something which the killer could not afford her ever to tell.

That did not exclude anyone. Sybilla was a clever and observant woman. She may have understood some word or act that had eluded the rest of them, or even been told something by George.

What could George have known? Emily sat hunched up in the damp, rising wind, pulling her shawl round her and raking through every possibility her mind could imagine, from the absurd to the horrific. At the end she was still left with Jack Radley, and her own clumsy complicity, or else William’s rather wild attempt to blame Eustace—and she was obliged to admit she believed that born more of hatred than sense.

She did not hear Jack Radley approach, and only when he was almost above her did she realize he was there. He was the last person she wanted to speak to at all, still less be alone with. She pulled her shawl even tighter round her and shivered.

“I was just thinking of going inside,” she said hastily. “It is not very pleasant. I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains.”

“It won’t rain yet.” He sat down beside her, refusing to accept dismissal. “But it is cold.” He slipped off his jacket and put it gently round her shoulders; it was still warm from his own body. She thought his hand lingered a moment longer than necessity required.

She opened her mouth to protest but did not, unsure that she would not be making herself ridiculous. After all, they were in clear view of the house, and she had no reason to wish herself back there. Luncheon had been ghastly, and no one would believe she wanted to pursue its conversations. And he had removed from her the excuse of being cold.

He interrupted her train of thought. “Emily, have the police any idea who killed George yet? Or were you just defying the old woman?”

Why was he asking? She wanted to be free to like him; she felt a happiness in his company like sunlight through a garden door at the end of a long passage. Yet she was terribly afraid it was deceptive.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t see Thomas this morning, and I only spoke to Charlotte for a moment as we came in to luncheon. I have no idea.” She forced herself to face him; it was just a fraction better than imagining his eyes.

His expression was full of concern. Was it for her or for himself?

“What did Eustace mean?” he said urgently. “Emily, for heaven’s sake think! I know it wasn’t me, and I refuse to believe it was you. It has to be one of them! Let me help you, please. Try to think. Tell me what William meant.”

Emily sat paralyzed. He looked so earnest, but he had lived by his charm for years; he was a superb actor when it was in his own interest. And this could be a matter of survival. If he had killed George they would hang him. The fact that she liked him did not cloud reason. Some extremely virtuous people could also be extremely boring, and admire them as one might, one shrank from their company. And the cruelest people could be very funny—until the essential ugliness snowed through.

He was still talking, his eyes on her face. Could she look at him and keep the balance to disbelieve? She had always had sense, far more sense than Charlotte. And she was a better actress, more skilled in masking her own feelings.

She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t know. I think he just hates Eustace and would like it to be him.”

“That leaves only old Mrs. March,” he said very quietly. “Unless you think it was Tassie, or Great-aunt Vespasia. Which you don’t.”

She knew what he was thinking now—it took only one step in reasoning, an inevitable step. It was Jack or Emily herself. She knew she had not murdered George and Sybilla, but she was growing increasingly afraid he had. Worse than that, she feared he still intended to court her.

He took her hands. He was not rough, but he was far stronger than she, and he did not mean to let go.

“Emily, for heaven’s sake think! There is something in the March family that we don’t know, something dangerous or shameful enough to cause murder, and if we don’t find out what it is, you or I may very well be hanged for it instead!”

Half of her wanted to scream at him to be quiet, but she knew it was true. Giving way to hysterics now would be stupid and destructive—perhaps even fatal. Charlotte had got nowhere, except to discover Tassie’s secret, which as it turned out was irrelevant. Emily would have to save herself. If Jack Radley were innocent, together they might discover something. If he were guilty and she played along with him, perhaps she would trick him into betraying something, however small. It could be survival.

“You are quite right,” she said seriously. “We must think. I shall tell you everything I know, then you will tell me. Between us we may finally deduce the truth.”

He smiled very slightly, not quite believing her.

She made an effort to deny the fear she felt—not only the great and overshadowing knowledge of danger from the law and the enduring judgment of Society, but the inner loneliness and the belying warmth he offered, which it would be so easy to accept. If only the poisonous suspicion in her mind could be crushed. She had to force herself to remember that he was still the most likely murderer. The thought hurt even more than she expected.

“Tassie goes out at night alone, to help deliver babies in the slums,” she said rather abruptly.

If she hoped to startle him she succeeded magnificently. He stared at her while emotions teemed across his face: incredulity, fear, admiration, and lastly, pure delight.

“That’s superb! But how in God’s name do you know?”

“Charlotte followed her.”

He cringed, letting his breath out between his teeth in a little hiss and shutting his eyes.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I expect Thomas was furious.”

“Furious!” his voice rose. “Isn’t that something of an understatement?”

Immediately she was defensive. “Well, if she hadn’t, we’d still be thinking it was Tassie! Charlotte saw her coming upstairs in the middle of the night with bloodstains on her hands and dress! What else should she do? Let it remain a mystery? She knows I didn’t murder anyone—”

“Emily!” He caught her hands.

“—and if we don’t find who it is, I could be arrested and imprisoned—”

“Emily! Stop it!”

“—and tried, and hanged!” she finished harshly. She was shaking in spite of the closeness of him, and the strength of his hands holding hers. “People have been hanged wrongly before.” Memories, stories teemed in her mind. “Charlotte knows that, and so do I!” It was a relief to put it into words, to drag the real terror out of the darkness at the back of her mind and share it with him.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But it is not going to happen to you. Charlotte won’t let it—neither will I. It has to be someone in this house. Vespasia has the courage, if she thought such a thing were necessary. But she would never have killed George, and I don’t think she would have had the physical strength to kill Sybilla—not the way it was done. Sybilla was a young, healthy woman... .” He hesitated, remembering.

“I know,” she said without pulling her hands away from him. “And Aunt Vespasia is not young, and not strong anymore.”

He smiled bleakly. “I wish I could think of a reason why old Mrs. March would have done it,” he said with feeling. “She’s twice Vespasia’s weight. She’d have the power.”

Emily looked at their locked hands. “But why would she?” she said hopelessly, anger and frustration welling up inside her. “There’d have to be a reason.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Unless George knew something about her.”

“Like what?”

He shook his head. “Something about the Marches? She’s choked up with family pride. I’m damned if I know why. They’ve plenty of money, but no breeding at all. It comes from trade.” Then he laughed at himself. “Not that I wouldn’t be glad of a little of it! My mother was a de Bohun, traces her family back to the Conquest. But you can’t even buy a good meal with that, let alone run a house.”

A wild series of thoughts clashed and jostled in her mind. Had he killed George hoping to marry her for the Ashworth money? But then, what about Tassie? Any man with sense would have chosen that marriage; it was infinitely safer, and his for the asking—or he must have thought so. He didn’t know about Mungo Hare. Or did he? Was he really so astounded by the news of Tassie’s midnight expeditions as he pretended to be? If Charlotte had followed her, so could he—at least, as far as seeing the young curate and realizing Tassie would never marry anyone else. Or perhaps Tassie had even told him herself? She was honest enough. She might have chosen not to delude him with false hope—not of love, but of money.

Emily shivered. She wanted to look at him—surely she had some ability of judgment left. And yet she also dreaded what she would see, and what she would reveal of herself. But as long as it remained undone it would crowd out all other thought from her mind. It was like vertigo, standing at the edge of a high balcony with the compulsive desire to look down, feeling the void pulling at you.

She looked up quickly and found his eyes worried, serious; she could see no deceit in them at all. It solved nothing. To find ugliness there might have freed her, let her believe the worst of him and kill the hope that—that what?

She refused to put it into words. It was too soon. But the thought stayed at the edge of her mind, something to move towards, beckoning her like a warm room at the end of a winter journey.

“Emily?”

She recalled her attention. They had been talking about the old woman. “She might have done something scandalous in her youth,” she offered. “Or maybe her husband did. Perhaps we should learn more of how the Marches got all their money—it could be something that would put an end to any idea of a peerage. Perhaps George knew of it. After all, it was her—” She swallowed. “Her medicine that was the poison.”