Silence in Hanover Close (33 page)

It is all up to us now, there is no one else. Please stay where you are and be very, very careful! Remember Dulcie! Half of me wants to beg you to come home with Jack immediately, tonight, so you will be safe; the other half knows you and I are Thomas’s only chance. He must have been close on the trail of someone very powerful and very dangerous. Please Emily, be careful. I love you,

Charlotte

She blotted it rather clumsily. It was scribbled, and her fingers were stiff. Then without rereading it she folded it, not very straight, and slipped it into an envelope. She sealed it, put the top back on the ink, and turned the gas down before going back to the kitchen. She gave the letter to Jack.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he promised. “We must plan.”

She nodded, overwhelmed with loneliness now that he was going. With him here she did not feel so frightened; even with Gracie’s loyalty, and the children, she would be alone when he was gone. Then there would be time to think, and nothing to do all the long, cold night. She dreaded waking in the morning.

“Good night.” She forced the moment to come, because waiting for it was worse, and she did not want to weep again. It was pointless, and too hard to stop.

“Good night.” Now at the point of going he also seemed reluctant. He was worried for her, and she knew it. Perhaps he really did love Emily. What an unspeakable way to discover it!

Jack hesitated a moment more, then as he could think of nothing further to say, turned and went to the door. She followed to let him out and watched him step into the street, where the wet cobbles shone in the dim gaslight, globes hung like baleful moons in haloes of rain.

He touched her cheek gently, then walked rapidly away towards the main road and the passing hansoms.

She was so tired she should have slept well, but her dreams were filled with fear, and she woke up many times, fighting for breath, her body aching with tension and her throat sore. The darkness seemed interminable, and when at last the gray dawn came, with rain beating on the window, it was a relief to get up. She was so tired she fumbled with her gown when she went downstairs to draw the pitcher of hot water, then changed her mind and washed in the kitchen anyway; it was warmer. Before dressing she decided to have a cup of tea. The taste of it would wash away some of the gritty feeling and its heat might wash out the tightness in her throat.

She was still sitting at the kitchen table when Gracie came in, also in her dressing gown, her hair down over her shoulders. She looked like a child. Charlotte had never noticed how threadbare her nightclothes were before. She must get her new ones—if she could ever afford it again. She wished she had done it sooner.

Gracie stood still, eyes wide, afraid to speak and uncertain what to say. But her gaze was perfectly steady and hot with loyalty. She longed to ask Charlotte if she was all right but did not dare, in case it seemed impertinent.

“Have a cup of tea before we begin,” Charlotte offered. “The kettle’s still just about boiling.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gracie accepted with some awe; she had never in her life before sat at the kitchen table taking tea in her nightgown.

But from then on the day got worse. The baker’s boy did not call but passed on down the street. The fishmonger’s boy, on the contrary, rang loudly, presented the account up to date, and demanded payment in full, with the warning that should madam be buying fish in future—which he appeared to doubt—all transactions would be strictly for payment in cash and on delivery. Gracie told him to be about his business and all but boxed his ears on the doorstep, but she was sniffing fiercely and her eyes were red when she came back to the kitchen.

Charlotte thought of sending her for bread, then realized how unfair that would be, and perhaps rash; obviously her loyalty was intense and she would retaliate against any jibes, even if only overheard. Charlotte was older and surely could learn to keep the peace. She should not hide behind a girl.

The experience was worse than she expected. She had never been more than civil to most of her neighbors. They knew from her speech, her manner, the quality of her clothes—though cut down from previous years—even the sight of Emily’s carriage now and then, that Charlotte was not of their background or stock. On the surface they were civil, even friendly from time to time, but resentment lay close under the surface, fear of the different, envy of privilege; though most of it was long in the past now, it was not forgiven.

She walked down the pavement with the wind pulling at her coat and the rain soaking her skirts. She was glad to reach the corner and the shelter of the grocer’s shop. As she went in the door the few women inside stopped talking and stared at her. One of them had a son who was a petty thief, serving six months in the Scrubs. She hated all police, and now was her chance to gain a little revenge with impunity. No one could blame her for it, nor defend the wife of a man who imprisoned other men, and then murdered a prostitute himself. She glared at Charlotte, hitched her basket onto her hip, and walked out of the shop, passing her so roughly that Charlotte was nearly knocked off balance, bruising her and leaving her startled by the suddenness as much as the pain. The other women tittered with amusement.

“Good mornin’, Mrs. Pitt, I’m sure!” one of them said loudly. “An’ ’ow are we today, then? Not so ’igh an’ mighty? Take our turn with the rest, will we?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte replied coldly. “I am quite well, thank you. Is your mother better? I heard she caught a chill in the rain.”

“She’s poorly,” the woman said, taken aback that Charlotte had not retaliated more in kind. “What’s it ter you?”

“Nothing at all, Mrs. Robertson, except good manners,” Charlotte answered. “Have you finished your purchases?”

“No I ’aven’t! You wait yer turn!” And she moved to stand square in front of the counter again, her eyes roving slowly over the shelves, deliberately taking as long as she could. There was nothing for Charlotte to do but contain her temper and wait.

The grocer shifted from one foot to the other, weighing where his profit lay, and chose the obvious. He ignored Charlotte and smiled toothily at Mrs. Robertson.

“I’ll ’ave ’alf a pound o’ sugar,” she said with satisfaction, tasting power like a sweet in her mouth. “Hif you please, Mr. Wilson.”

The grocer dipped into his sack and put half a pound little by little into the scales, then emptied it into a blue paper bag and gave it to her.

“I changed me mind.” She glanced at Charlotte maliciously, and then back at the grocer. “I’m feelin’ rich this mornin; I’ll ’ave an ’ole pound.”

“Yes, Mrs. Robertson. O’ course.” The grocer weighed another half pound carefully and gave it to her.

The door opened and the bell rang as another woman entered and took her place behind Charlotte.

“An’ I’ll ’ave some Pears’ soap,” Mrs. Robertson added. “Fer the complexion. It’s very good, in’t it, Mrs. Pitt? Is that wot you use? Not that yer’ll be able ter afford it now! Come down in yer ideas a bit, won’t yer?”

“Possibly. But it takes more than a bar of soap to make a beauty, Mrs. Robertson,” Charlotte said coldly. “Did you ever find your umbrella?”

“No I didn’t!” Mrs. Robertson said angrily. “There’s a lot o’ people round ’ere in’t as honest as they makes out. I reckon as somebody stole it!”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “Call a policeman,” she said with a smile.

The woman glared at her, and this time it was the other woman who sniggered under her breath.

But the verbal victory was brief and gave her no pleasure, and at the baker’s it was worse, no jibes, only silence, until she was leaving, when there were whispers behind hands and a nodding of heads. She was asked for cash, and it was counted carefully before being put into the till with a snap. If things became hard, there would be no credit for her, she knew without asking—no allowances, and probably from now on no deliveries. The greengrocer made some excuse about being short of help, even though there was a boy standing idle over the sack of potatoes, obviously waiting for something to do, and Charlotte had to carry her heavy bags home herself. A boy of about nine or ten ran past her yelling, “Haya! Rozzer’s in the Steel! They’ll ’ang ’im fer sure! Dingle dangle, see ’im dance!” and did a little skip in and out of the gutter.

She tried to ignore him, but the words struck black terror in her, and by the time she got home, soaking wet, her arms aching, shoulders dragging with the weight of her purchases, she was close to despair.

She was barely inside and had just taken off her wet boots and was setting them near the stove in the kitchen when she heard the front doorbell. Gracie looked at her and without being asked went to open it. She came back a moment later, her feet light along the passage, her skirt swishing round the door.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, it’s your mama, Mrs. Ellison. Shall I bring ’er through ’ere? It’s terrible cold in the parlor. I’ll make yer a cup o’ tea, then I’ll go upstairs an’ get on wiv the bedrooms.”

Charlotte felt little of Gracie’s trust; she was much less certain of what Caroline would have to say. She stood up quickly.

“Yes—yes, you’d better.” There was no alternative: she could not ask anyone to sit in the freezing parlor, nor could she bear to herself. Her wet feet were still numb, and the edges of her skirts were steaming as the kitchen’s warmth reached them. “I’ll make the tea,” she added. It would give her something to do. And it would allow her an excuse to turn her back.

“Yes ma’am.” Gracie disappeared, her feet tip-tapping lightly on the linoleum.

Caroline came in, having already divested herself of her coat, and since she had naturally come in a carriage, she was not wet except for the soles of her neat high-button boots.

“Oh, my dear!” She held her arms open. Perfunctorily, because there was nothing else to do, Charlotte responded, holding her for only a moment before stepping back. “I’ll make us a cup of tea,” she said quickly. “I’ve only just come in myself and I’m perished, and wet.”

“Charlotte, my dear, you must come home.” Caroline sat down a little gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs.

“No thank you,” Charlotte said instantly. She reached for the kettle and filled it, setting it on the hob.

“But you can’t stay here!” Caroline argued, her voice ringing with reason. “The newspapers are full of the story! I don’t think you realize—”

“I realize perfectly!” Charlotte contradicted her. “If I hadn’t before I went to the shops, I certainly do now. And I am not running away.”

“Darling, it’s not running away!” Caroline stood up and came over as if to touch her again, then sensed her daughter’s resentment. “You must face reality, Charlotte. You have made a mistake which has turned out tragically for you. If you come home now, take your maiden name again, I can—”

Charlotte froze. “I will not! How dare you suggest such a thing! You’re speaking as if you imagined Thomas were guilty!” She turned round slowly, cups and saucers in her hands. “For the children’s sake you can take them, if you will. If you won’t, then they’ll have to stay here as any ordinary man’s would have to. I’m not ashamed of Thomas—I’m ashamed of you for wanting me to run away and deny him instead of fighting! I am going to find out who killed that woman, and prove it, just as I did for Emily when they thought she murdered George—for which she had far more reason!”

Caroline sighed and kept her patience, which made it worse. “My dear, that was quite different,” she began.

“Oh? Why? Because she is ‘one of us’ and Thomas isn’t?”

Caroline’s face tightened. “If you insist on putting it that way—yes.”

“Well, you’ve been glad enough to have him ‘one of us’ when you needed him!” Charlotte could feel herself close to losing control, and it made her furious, both with herself and with Caroline.

“You must be realistic,” Caroline began again.

“You mean desert him quickly, so people can see I have nothing to do with it?” Charlotte demanded. “How honorable you are, Mama! How brave!”

“Charlotte, I’m only thinking of you!”

“Are you?” Charlotte’s disbelief was strident, because she thought what Caroline said was probably honest. It was what other people would think too, and it terrified her. She did not care if she was being unjust, she wanted to hurt. “Are you sure you aren’t thinking of the neighbors, and what your friends will say about you?” she went on, mimicking their voices savagely. “ ‘You know that nice Mrs. Ellison, well you’ll never believe it, but her daughter married a policeman—isn’t that dreadful—and now he’s gone and committed a murder! I always said no good comes of marrying beneath you.’ ”

“Charlotte! I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it!”

“You are being quite unfair! And the kettle is boiling. You are filling the kitchen with steam and it’ll boil dry. For goodness’ sake make the tea and have a cup. Perhaps you will be able to think a little more clearly. Loyalty to Thomas is all very well, but it is self-indulgent. This has happened, and you must be practical and think of the children.”

She was quite right at least in that the room was filling with steam. Charlotte made the tea, burning her hand on the kettle and refusing to admit it. She set the teapot on the table and fiddled furiously in the cupboard for biscuits. When she found them she spilled them onto a plate and set it down, then poured the tea and passed it. Finally she sat down, hardly more composed.

“I would be very grateful if you took the children,” she said carefully. “It would protect them from—from the worst, at least—” She stopped. She had been going to say, “for the time being,” and even that thought was a betrayal.

“Of course,” Caroline said quickly. “And as soon as you want to come, too, you know there is always a place for you.”

“I—am—not—coming,” Charlotte said very slowly and deliberately.

“Then go and stay with Emily in the country,” Caroline urged her. “Thomas would understand. He wouldn’t expect you to stay here. What can you do? Make a show of being brave and letting everyone know you believe he is innocent? My dear, it will only get you hurt, and it will make no difference at all in the end. Leave it to the police.”