Silence in Hanover Close (36 page)

The change in his face was so subtle it was not a movement of any one feature, but Emily knew instantly that Loretta had trespassed too far, although she herself did not seem to realize it.

“I think the word you were looking for was ‘charitable,’ ” he said very quietly.

“Do you also take a ‘charitable’ view of the maid coming in here looking as if she’d just got out of bed?” Loretta demanded with icy disgust.

Piers turned and regarded Emily curiously. There was the faintest glint of humor in his eyes. “Have you been scuffling with one of the menservants, Amelia?”

She looked back at him perfectly steadily.

“No, sir, I have not; not now, nor at any time.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “The matter is settled. I think it is time we all changed for dinner.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked casually to the door.

“I am keeping my maid.”
VERONICA
stared at Loretta. “If she goes, it will be because I don’t want her, not because you don’t!”

“Drink your tea,” Loretta replied without expression, but Emily knew from her face, the calm power
IN THE SET OF HER MOUTH, THAT HER DEFEAT WAS ONLY TEMPORARY. TIME WAS SHORT.

But then time was short for Pitt anyway.

Loretta went out and closed
THE DOOR WITH A FIRM CLICK. VERONICA IGNORED THE TEA AND ATE THE BREAD AND BUTTER. “I’VE CHANGED MY MIND,” SHE SAID, STARING INTO THE MIRROR. “I’LL WEAR THE CRIMSON DRESS.”

The following days passed grimly. Emily tried hard to be the perfect lady’s maid so that not even Edith could find fault with her. She ironed many articles three and four times, redampening them and smoothing them again and again with the flatiron till they were flawless. Her back and arms ached, but she would not be beaten by a crease in a piece of cotton. There was no time to sit down and swap gossip, as she would have liked to, since there was also the possibility that someone else on the staff might have known something.

There was always the chance that Veronica’s resolve would weaken or her courage fail, and Emily would find herself given notice again. She bit back any smart replies, forcing herself to act meekly, to walk with her head less high and without the slight whisk of skirts that was natural to her.

On the other hand she went out of her way to flatter Mrs. Melrose, the cook, who became a first-class ally, since she disliked Mrs. Crawford already. Emily worked on the principle “My enemy’s enemy is my friend.” She did rather well with the butler also. Normally it was a tactic she would have despised, but she must survive here if she were to be any use to Charlotte or Thomas, and there was no time for fine moral niceties.

The tweeny and the scullery maid were the lowest forms of life in the household, but the tweeny in particular was an observant child and not unintelligent, and Emily was able, through a little kindness, to draw quite a lot of information from her. Of course, the girl knew nothing about Robert York, and very little about the family at all; but she had very definite opinions about the rest of the servants. There was no room to be subtle.

On Saturday Emily took her afternoon off and met Charlotte in the park in a fine, driving rain. It was bitterly cold and they huddled together, pulling collars higher and burying their hands in muffs, but at least it was highly unlikely that they would be observed. Who but the illicit or those bound in the utmost haste from one place to another would be out on such a day? Even the homeless chose the comparative shelter of the streets rather than the open wastes of the park, where the wind could sheer unchecked across the flat gray-green winter grass; and forbidden lovers had no eyes for anyone but each other.

They exchanged news, which gave them both some new insights, but no conclusions beyond what they already knew: the murderer was in Hanover Close, and either Veronica or Loretta knew, if not who it was, then at least why the crime had been committed. But how to break their silence was still a mystery.

Charlotte was frightened. She hovered on the edge of begging Emily to leave the York house. Three times she started to, and then the almost paralyzing fear for Pitt drowned out everything else and her words died in her throat. Not that it would have made any difference; Emily had no intention of retiring from the fight and sitting by while they tried Pitt and hanged him.

Which did not mean Emily was not also frightened. After hugging Charlotte good-bye, she sniffed back the tears and turned from the park gates to run along the wet pavements in the rain, past the carriages in the streets, along the wrought iron railings and down the area steps into the kitchen. She was so cold she was shaking inside. She piled her sodden coat and boots into the laundry room to dry, ate a silent supper at the kitchen table, and went up to her room. She lay in bed still shivering and thought how she might trap the man or woman who had murdered three times already and had hidden the crimes so well that the only person suspected was Pitt.

She woke in the dark with a scream in her throat and her body clenched with terror as a footfall made the merest tap in the bare passage outside her door. Soundlessly she slid out of bed, the cold air on her skin cutting through her thin nightgown like a blow. By the dim light of the badly curtained window, she grasped the one wooden chair and wedged it under the door handle. Then she scrambled back into bed again, pulled her knees up to her stomach, and tried to get warm enough to go back to sleep, so that she would not be useless in the morning, either to work or to match wits with a murderer, trap them, and survive to show the proof.

She got up in the chilly gray dawn in time to remove the chair, so that when Fanny, the tweeny, called to waken her she knew nothing of it. The day was full of tedious, time-consuming chores and Emily learned nothing that seemed to be of value.

This was pointless! It could go on for months! She must force the issue.

Late in the evening she crept into the pantry, pocketed half a dozen biscuits dipped in chocolate, and made two cups of cocoa. She carried them upstairs, where she knocked on the tweeny’s door and, when it was opened, whispered her invitation.

Five minutes later they were curled up, feet under them, on Emily’s bed, sharing the biscuits and sipping hot cocoa. Emily began to gossip.

It took ten minutes before she could bring up the subject of Dulcie’s death.

“Whatever was she doing leaning out of the window?” she said, eating the last biscuit. “Do you suppose she was calling to someone?”

“Nah!” Fanny said scornfully. “If’n there’d bin anybody there, they’d ’a said, wouldn’t they? I mean, nobody saw ’er fall! Anyway, she weren’t like that.”

“What do you mean?” Emily affected innocence.

“Well ...” Fanny hunched her shoulders in a shrug. “She weren’t a flirt. She were sort o’—proper. Quiet like.”

“And nobody saw her at all?” Emily said incredulously.

“It were dark! She fell out some time in the evening. We was all inside.”

Emily gazed at her. “How do you know? Do you know where everyone was?”

Fanny screwed up her face. “Well, we would be, wouldn’t we? Where else would anyone be on a wet night in the middle o’ winter?”

“Oh.” Emily sat back against the thin pillow. “I thought maybe you actually knew where everyone was: at supper in the kitchen, or in the servants hall.”

“No one knows when she fell out,” Fanny explained patiently. “Any’ow, she were there at supper wiv us ’erself.”

“You mean—” Emily opened her eyes wider. “You mean she fell during the night? What was the last time anyone saw her?”

“Edith said good night to ’er ’baht ’alf nine,” Fanny replied, thinking hard. “Me an’ Prim was playin’ cards. Dulcie weren’t feelin’ that special, so it must ’a bin after that, mustn’t it?”

“But that doesn’t make sense!” Emily persisted. “Why should she be leaning out of a window during the night? You don’t think—” She took a deep bream and waited. “You don’t think she had someone climbing in?”

“Oh no!” Fanny’s shock was genuine and profound. “Not Dulcie! You mean a—a follower? Never! Not ’er, she weren’t...” Her little face set in practical lines. “Any’ow, if’n yer was going to ’ave a follower in the ’ouse, yer wouldn’t ’ave the poor soul climb up no drainpipe to an attic winder; yer’d creep down an’ let ’im in the scullery door, wouldn’t yer? She weren’t daft! But she weren’t loose neither.” She finished the last of the cocoa and looked at Emily over the rim of her cup, then automatically pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Know what I reckon, Amelia?”

Emily was agog, leaning forward to urge her on. “What?”

Fanny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I reckon as she saw summink the night Mr. Robert were murdered, and someone came back an’ murdered ’er, in case she told that rozzer as was ’ere askin’!”

Emily breathed out in a careful sigh of amazement. “Oh Fanny! You could be right! You think there was a break-in?”

Fanny shook her head vigorously. “No, there weren’t—we’d ’a known. Mr. Redditch is most partic’lar, ’specially after there were that terrible robbery when Mr. Robert were murdered. All the doors and winders is looked ter special every night afore ’e goes ter bed ’isself. ’Im or Albert goes over every one.”

“Well, could anyone have got in before that?” Emily asked eagerly.

“Nah!” Fanny smiled at her innocence. “ ’Ow? There’s only the front door, an’ yer can’t come in that ’less someone opens it for yer; and the back door’d mean ’e ’ad ter come through the kitchen, and there’s always people there, Cook or Mary at least, an’ on a night wiv guests, near all of us.”

“Who were the guests that night? Do you know?”

“The two Danver gentlemen and the ladies, Miss ’arriet and the old Miss Danver, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Asherson. ’E’s ever so ’andsome, Mr. Asherson, in a sort o’ broodin’ way. I know Nora’s always on about ’im. I reckon as she’s got a fancy for ’im rotten!” She sniffed, unconsciously imitating the housekeeper’s tone. “Silly little article! What’d she get out of it, ’ceptin’ misery?”

“Then it must have been someone already in the house,” Emily whispered back, entirely forgetting her accent, but Fanny appeared not to notice. “Or someone in the house let in another person?”

“Like ’oo?” Fanny was indignant. “In’t none of us servants ’d do that! Anyway, we weren’t none of us ’ere when Mr. Robert were killed, ’ceptin’ Mary an’ Dulcie ’erself. An’ Mary’s in the kitchen and nobody came through that way or we’d all ’a seen ’em. Come ter that, Albert was on in the ’all.”

“So it was someone here,” Emily agreed. “The only other possibility is that Dulcie crept down during the night and let someone in herself—or Mary did, I suppose.” She added that only in the interests of strict logic; she did not believe for a moment that either girl had done such a thing. She had the information she wanted: it had happened after dinner and could have been before the guests left, but there had definitely been no break-in. “Fanny, I think you’re right!” She leaned forward, gripping Fanny’s thin arm. “You’d better say nothing to anyone at all—in case you fall out of a window as well! Promise me.”

Fanny shook her head, eyes grave. “I won’t! Oh, believe the, I won’t. I don’t want ter end up squashed on the pavement like ’er, poor thing. An’ you better keep a still tongue too.”

“I swear!” Emily said with conviction. “And I’ll put a chair against my door.”

“You better ’ad,” Fanny agreed. “Me too!” She uncurled her legs and slid to the floor, hugging her nightgown round her, shivering now the cocoa was finished. “G’night, ’melia.”

But even with the chair wedged under the handle Emily did not sleep easily. Several times she woke with a start, uncertain if she had heard footsteps in the passage outside, and whether they had stopped outside her door. Could someone have tried the handle? The wind rattled the loose sash frame, and she froze in terror, waiting till the sound came again and she could be certain what it was. Suspicions churned in her mind, slipping in and out of dreams.

With daylight courage returned, but she was still nervous; it took all her concentration not to make any mistakes. As she went from one pedestrian duty to the next, she was always aware of other people, of movement, shadows. By evening she was so tired she could have wept with exhaustion. She felt imprisoned in the house, hurried from one place to another with never any time to be alone, yet carrying her loneliness like a weight inside. And always time was the enemy. In a way it was a blessing to have work to occupy her.

Charlotte could only imagine what might be happening to Emily after they parted in the rain at the park gates. It was useless to think about it; she could do nothing. And she must keep lying to Pitt or he would know she was working to find the truth—and then he was certain to realize that she was doing so because Ballarat was doing nothing—no one would do anything. The loneliness of having to lie to him was one of the worse pains she had ever known. The luxury of hiding nothing, carrying no knowledge alone, was something she was so used to she had forgotten its value. Now it would only be selfishness, and she did not even consider it. Nevertheless, the hurt caught her by surprise.

But there were small kindnesses, friendships where she had not thought to find them. A strange little man in a coster’s coat and cap brought her a bag of herrings and refused to be paid, hurrying away into the rain without looking back, as though embarrassed to be thanked. One morning she found a bundle of kindling sticks on the back step, and two days later there was another bundle. She never saw who left them. The greengrocer became curt to the point of outright rudeness, but the coal merchant continued to deliver, and she thought his sacks were if anything a little fuller.

Caroline did not come back, but she wrote every day saying that Daniel and Jemima were well and offering to do anything she could to help.

The letter that touched her most came from Great-aunt Vespasia, who was ill with bronchitis and confined to her bed. She had no doubt whatsoever that Pitt was innocent, and as soon as the time was appropriate, if it should come to such a ridiculous pass, she would instruct her lawyer to act on his behalf. She also enclosed ten guineas, for which she hoped Charlotte would not be silly enough to take offense. One could not fight on an empty stomach—and quite obviously a fight was on hand.