Death in the Devil's Acre (18 page)

Therefore, in considering murder, Emily took into account the names and situations, such as she knew them, of Christina’s social circle and those who might conceivably have been involved with Max. There were about seven or eight she found likely, and another half dozen possible, though she believed they lacked the courage, or the indifference to values of modesty or loyalty, to have taken such a step. But if nothing better presented itself, she would bear in mind to suggest their names to Pitt, so that he might discover where their husbands had been at the relevant times.

And there was always the possibility of an unfortunate recognition to consider—a little betrayal—or blackmail. What of a man who took his pleasures in a whorehouse and found he had bought his own wife! The permutations were legion, all of them painful and desperately foolish.

It could be that one such woman had been used by Max, that one of her customers had been Bertie Astley and, for some reason, a fear or hatred had arisen that resulted in the murder not only of Max but of Astley also. How Hubert Pinchin was involved, however, she did not yet have any suggestion.

The other most obvious possibility was even less pleasant to her: that Beau Astley had read of the startling murders of Max and Dr. Pinchin, and had seized the opportunity to imitate these crimes and get rid of his elder brother. It would not be the first murder to ape another—and so saddle a man guilty of two murders with the blame for one more.

Beau Astley had enough to gain from his brother’s death, that was certain. But how much had he wanted it? Was he in financial straits, or did he manage very well upon whatever resources he had? Was he in love with May Woolmer? In fact, what kind of a person was he in general?

At the breakfast table, Emily sipped her tea. George was not at his best. He was hiding behind the newspaper, not to read it but to avoid having to think of something to say.

“I called upon poor May Woolmer recently,” Emily remarked cheerfully.

“Did you?” George’s voice was absentminded, and Emily realized he had forgotten who May Woolmer was.

“She is still in mourning, of course,” she continued. An outright request for information would be unlikely to produce it. George did not like curiosity—it was vulgar, and likely to offend people. He did not care if people took offense when it was unwarranted, but he disliked the thought of being oafish, or anything that might appear ignorant of courtesy. He knew very well the value of acceptance.

“I beg your pardon?” He had not been paying attention, and now put the paper down reluctantly as he realized that she had no intention of allowing the matter to drop.

“She is still in mourning for Bertie Astley,” Emily repeated.

His face cleared a little. “Oh, yes, she would be. Pity about that. Nice enough fellow.”

“Oh, George!” She contrived to look shocked.

“What?” He clearly failed to understand. It was a harmless remark, and surely Astley had been perfectly amiable.

“George!” She let her voice slide down, and lowered her eyes. “I do know where he was found, you know!”

“What?”

She wished she could blush to order. Some women could, and it was a most useful accomplishment. She avoided looking at him, in case he read curiosity in her eyes instead of modest horror.

“He was found on the doorstep of a house of pleasure.” She voiced the euphemism as if it came to her tongue with some embarrassment. “Where the ‘occupants’ are men as well!”

“Oh, God! How did you know that?” This time he needed no pretense whatever to show interest. His face was startled, his dark eyes very wide. “Emily?”

For a moment Emily could think of nothing to say. The conversation had taken a turn she should have foreseen, but had not. Should she admit to having read the newspapers? Or should she blame Charlotte? No, that was not a good idea—it might have unfortunate repercussions. George might even take it into his head that she should not associate with Charlotte quite so much, especially during the investigation of scandalous murders like these.

She had a sudden inspiration. “May told me. Goodness knows where she heard it. But you know how these whispers spread. Why? Is it not true, after all?” She met his eyes squarely and with total innocence this time. She had no qualms about deceiving George in trivial matters—it was for his own good. She was never less than honest in things of importance, like loyalty, or money. But sometimes George needed a little managing.

His shoulders eased and he sat back in his chair again, but his expression was still full of confusion. Two things troubled him: the extremely unsavory facts concerning Bertie Astley, and quite how much of them it was proper to tell Emily.

She understood him very well, and rescued the situation before she lost the initiative and was obliged to begin all over again. “Perhaps I should call upon May and reassure her?” she suggested. “If it is only a malicious invention—”

“Oh, no!” He was unhappy, but quite decided. “I am afraid you cannot do that—it is perfectly true.”

Emily looked suitably downcast, as though she had actually entertained a hope that it was not. “George? Was Sir Bertram—I mean, did he have ... a peculiar nature?”

“Good God, no! That is what is so damned odd! I simply don’t understand it.” He pulled a face, in rare outspokenness. “Although I suppose we seldom know people as well as we imagine. Perhaps he was ... and no one knew it.”

Emily put her hand out across the table and clasped his. “Don’t think it, George,” she said gently. “Is it not far more likely that some other suitor of May Woolmer’s was so crazed he simply took the opportunity to rid himself of a rival and slander him horribly at the same time? That way he could be rid of him both literally and in memory. After all, how could May cherish the thought of a man who practiced such indecencies!”

He considered it for a moment, closing his hand over hers. There were times when he was really extremely fond of her. One thing about Emily: even after five years of marriage, she was never a bore.

“I doubt it,” he said at last. “She is a handsome creature, certainly, but I cannot imagine anyone getting so infatuated with her as to do that. She hasn’t the—the fire. And she has very little money, you know.”

“I thought Beau Astley was exceedingly attracted to her,” she suggested.

“Beau?” He looked incredulous.

“Is he not?” Now she was confused also.

“I think he likes her very well, yes, but he has other interests, and he’s hardly the sort to kill his own brother!”

“There is the title, and the money,” she pointed out.

“Do you know Beau Astley?”

“No,” she said hopefully. At last they had come to the point. “What sort of a man is he?”

“Agreeable—rather more than poor Bertie, actually. And generous,” he said with conviction. “I really think I should go and see him.” He let the newspaper slide to the floor and stood up. “I always liked Beau. Poor fellow’s probably feeling terrible. Mourning is such a tedious business—it makes you feel infinitely worse. No matter how grieved you are, you don’t want to sit around in a house full of gaslights and black crepe, with servants speaking in whispers and maids who sniffle every time they see you. I’ll go and offer him a little companionship.”

“What a good idea,” she agreed earnestly. “I am sure he will be very grateful for it. It is most sensitive of you.” How could she persuade him, without arousing suspicion, to question Beau Astley a little? “He may very well be longing to unburden himself to someone, a good friend he can trust,” she said, watching George’s face. “After all, a great many disturbing and unhappy thoughts must have troubled him as to what can possibly have happened. And he cannot be unaware of other people’s speculations. I am sure if I were in his situation I should long for someone to confide in!”

If it occurred to him that she had any ulterior motive, he did not show it in his face. At least, she did not think his flicker of a smile was for that reason... . Was it?

“Indeed,” he answered soberly. “Sometimes it is a great relief to talk—in confidence!”

Was George perhaps more astute than she had supposed? And enamored of the idea of a little detective work of his own? Surely not! Watching his elegant back as he went out the door, she felt a sharp tingle of pleasant surprise.

Three days later, Emily had contrived to take Charlotte with herself and George to a small private ball, where she had ascertained in advance that the Balantynes were to be present, as well as Alan Ross and Christina. What excuse Charlotte offered to Pitt was her own affair.

Emily was not sure quite what knowledge she hoped to acquire, but she was not innocent of the general habits of the gentlemen of Society. She had learned to accept the extraordinary feat of mental and ethical agility that enabled a man to indulge his physical appetites in the expensive brothels near the Haymarket all night, and then to come home and preside over his family at a silent and obedient breakfast table, where his wish was enough to produce a flurry of eagerness and his word held the force of law. She had chosen to live in Society and enjoy its privileges. Therefore, though she did not admire its hypocrisy, she did not rebel against it.

Emily had no liking at all for Christina Ross, but she could very well believe that Christina had sympathy for the few women who dared to break from social confines and play men at their own game, even to the point of risking everything for a wild masquerade at a house such as Max’s in the Devil’s Acre. Emily thought it was excessively foolish! Only a woman with no brains at all would wager so much for such a tawdry return—and she despised such idiocy.

But she was aware that boredom occasionally drove out all intelligence, even the sense of self-preservation. She had seen overwrought women imagine themselves in love and rush headlong, like lemmings, to their own destruction. Usually they were young, a first passion. But perhaps it was only the outside that changed with age: habits learned, a little camouflage for vulnerability. The desperation inside might be the same at any time. So by chance among Christina Ross’s acquaintances tonight might there not be at least one of Max’s women?

She wished Charlotte to come also for her added ability to observe. Charlotte was very naïve on certain points, but on others she was surprisingly acute. Added to which, Christina disliked her, seemed in some way to be almost jealous. And in the heat of strong emotion people were inclined to betray themselves. Charlotte could be extremely handsome when she was enjoying herself, giving someone all her attention—as she did, for some quite unaccountable reason, to General Balantyne. If anything might cause Christina to lose her self-mastery, her judgment, it would be Charlotte flirting with the general—and even perhaps with Alan Ross.

Accordingly, Emily, George, and Charlotte arrived at Lord and Lady Easterby’s ball for their eldest daughter. They were just late enough still to be civil and yet also to cause a pleasing stir of appreciation among the guests already thronging the hall.

Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green, which flattered her fair skin; the gentle curls of her hair caught the light like an aureole. She looked like the spirit of an elusive early English summer, when the blossom is still clean and the air dappled with cool and shifting light.

She had taken great care over Charlotte. She had considered deeply what would attract the general most, and would therefore irritate Christina. Thus Charlotte swept into the ballroom in a swirl of vibrant and luminous gentian blue that was delicate on her throat and made her hair gleam with the shadowed luster of old copper. She was like a tropical night when the gold of the sun has gone but the warmth of the earth still lingers. If she had even the faintest idea what Emily’s intentions were, she showed no sign of it whatever. Which was as well, because Emily doubted Charlotte’s conscience would have allowed her to go along with such a plan—however much she liked the idea—had she perceived it. And she was useless at flirting if she tried! But it was a long time since Charlotte had had the chance to dress exquisitely, to be extravagant, to dance all night. She was not even aware of her own hunger for the excitement of it.

They were received with a flutter of attention. George’s title and the fact that Charlotte was a new face, and therefore mysterious, would have been sufficient, whatever their appearance. That the sisters looked ravishing was cause for a deluge of speculation and rumor enough to keep conversations alive for a month.

So much the better; it would add to the heat of the evening—Christina would not take well to being outshone. Emily wondered for a prickling moment if perhaps she had miscalculated and the results would be less informative and more purely unpleasant than she had intended; then she dismissed the idea. It was too late to alter things now anyhow.

She sailed forward with a radiant smile to greet Lady Augusta Balantyne, who was standing stiff and very regal, composing her face into an answering social charm.

“Good evening, Lady Ashworth,” Augusta said coolly. “Lord Ashworth. How pleasant to see you again. Good evening, Miss Ellison.”

Emily was suddenly aware of being ashamed. She looked at Augusta, her shoulders tight, the fine tendons in her neck standing out under her ruby necklace, the weight of stones cold and heavy in their blood color. Was Augusta really so afraid of Charlotte? Was it possible that she loved her husband? That this softness about his mouth as he greeted Charlotte, the slightly straighter shoulders, was deeper than a flirtation with an agreeable woman? Something that touched the emotions that endure, that hurt and disturb, and leave a loneliness behind that is never filled by any other affection—and Augusta knew it?

The ballroom glittered and people laughed around them, but for a moment Emily was unaware of it. Chandeliers full of tinkling facets filled the ceilings; violin strings scraped briefly, then found the full, rich tone; footmen moved with elegance while balancing glasses of champagne and fruit punch.

All she had intended was to scratch the veneer of Christina’s temper, and perhaps to learn in a moment of carelessness a little of what she knew about the society women who might have frequented Max’s brothel. The last thing Emily wanted was to cause a real and permanent injury. Please heaven Charlotte knew what she was doing!