Silence in Hanover Close (41 page)

They scuttled along the corridor, down the stairs, and onto the main landing; then Emily stopped sharply and held up her finger in warning. Charlotte froze.

“Amelia?” It was a man’s voice. “Amelia? I thought you were looking after Miss Barnaby?”

Emily started down again. “Yes I am. I’ve come to get her a tisane.”

“ ’Aven’t you got any upstairs?”

“Not peppermint. Would you get me some? I’ll stay here in case she calls—I don’t think she’s well at all. Please, Albert.”

Standing above her, at the head of the stairs, Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice and picture the soft look. She was not in the least surprised when Albert agreed without a murmur, and the next moment Emily was back at the bannister again, whispering fiercely to her to hurry.

Charlotte came down so rapidly she almost fell on the last step. She catapulted across the open hallway and through the conservatory door into the blessed dimness of the sparse, yellow night-lights. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, she felt as if her whole body must be shaking, and no effort could fill her lungs with enough air.

She stood under the ornamental palm at the far end of the pathway, so she could see the door to the hall. If anyone came she could step forward and the light would catch primarily her shoulder and skirt, showing that burning color; her face would remain in the shadow of the overhanging frond.

But would anyone come? Perhaps Cerise never made assignations by letter. Or maybe her writing or the words she used were utterly different from what Charlotte had written, and the recipients would recognize that instantly. She had given Julian Danver the earliest time. If he were going to come he should be here any moment. In fact, he was late. How long had she been here?

She could hear the faintest sound of footsteps somewhere in the house—probably Albert in the hall. They were not coming this way. Closer to her there was a steady dripping of moisture from one leaf to another, and finally onto the damp earth beneath. The smell of vegetation was overpowering.

She tried to occupy her mind and failed utterly. Every train of thought dissolved into chaos, driven out by the tension that was tightening like the slow turning of a ratchet. Her hands were sticky and felt like pins and needles. Was she going to stand here in the dark under a potted palm half the night?

The whisper startled her so violently it could have been at her shoulder—she did not even know what the words had been.

He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide, the yellow light making his cheeks look unnaturally haggard and chiseling his nose more finely.

Charlotte stepped forward just enough to present a clear silhouette against the green, and for the light to catch the searing pink dress.

He was surprised when he saw the color, the smoothness of her bare shoulder and the slender curve of her neck, the black wig. For an instant the pain in him was totally naked. It was too late to call it back—Garrard Danver had loved Cerise. The storm of it had left the wrack in his face. In spite of himself, he came towards her.

She had no idea what to do—conspiracy, infatuation she had been half prepared for, but not such pain.

Unconsciously she backed towards the palm, and the light above her fell on her bosom.

Garrard stopped. His eyes were hollow, he was like a caricature, ugly and beautiful; even in his despair there was self-knowledge, a shaft of irony.

Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.

“Who are you?” he said very quietly.

“Who did you think I was, when you came?” She had thought of that question long before.

His smile was ghastly. “I had no idea. I never imagined you were whom you pretend to be.”

“Then why did you come?” It was a challenge.

“To see why you wanted me, of course! If you’ve blackmail in mind, you’re a fool! You’re risking your life for a few pounds.”

“I don’t want money!” she said sharply. “I want—” She stopped. He was close to her now, so close she could have lifted her hand and touched his cheek. But she was still in so deep a shadow that he had not recognized her. There was someone else in the doorway, someone motionless with horror, and yet with such a passion of jealousy in her face she might truly have seen hell in the quietly dripping leaves and the two figures standing almost touching each other, and that harsh, incandescent, outrageous dress.

Loretta York. Garrard turned very slowly and saw her. He did not look embarrassed, as Charlotte had expected, nor ashamed. The wretchedness in his face was fear—and worse than that, a kind of revulsion.

Water slid off the leaves and landed on the lily petals with a faint
plink.
All three of them stood motionless.

At last Loretta gave a little shudder and turned on her heel and went out.

Garrard looked at Charlotte, or rather at the gloom where she stood. His voice was hoarse, he had to make two attempts at speaking.

“Wha—what do you want?”

“Nothing. Leave. Go back to the party,” she hissed.

He hesitated, peering at her, unsure whether to believe her or not, and she retreated, almost backing into the palm.

“Go back to the party!” she whispered fiercely. “Go back!”

His relief was flickering, but he did not wait: all he wanted was to escape. A moment later she stood alone in the conservatory. She tiptoed to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hall, not even Emily. Should she risk running upstairs now, or wait until Emily gave her the signal? Perhaps this emptiness was the signal? If Albert came back it would be too late.

She was at the foot of the stairs without having made a conscious decision. It was too late to go back. She picked up the magenta taffeta of her skirt and ran up as fast as she could. Please heaven there would be no one on the landing, nor anyone on the stairs leading to the servants quarters.

She got to the top, breathless, her heart pounding. The narrow passage was deserted, nothing but doors on either side. Which one was Emily’s? Hellfire! She had completely forgotten! Panic rose inside her. If anyone came she would have to dive for the nearest room and hope it was empty.

There were footsteps on the stairs now! She scuttled to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it. She was only just inside when the footsteps reached the top. She waited. If they came in here there was nothing at all she could do. Frantically she looked around for something to hit them with. She could not be hauled downstairs like a common housebreaker!

“Charlotte! Charlotte, where are you?”

Relief nearly made her sick. She felt heat and icy cold rush over her, prickling on her skin. She pulled the door open with shaking hands.

“I’m here!”

Ten minutes later she was downstairs in the withdrawing room again, her hair a trifle disheveled; that was easily explained by saying that she had been lying down, and yes thank you, she was quite recovered now. She remained fairly quiet, not wanting to risk the amazing luck she had had so far. Her hands still trembled a little and her mind was crowded with anything but stupid conversation.

The party broke up early, as though by common consent. By quarter to eleven Charlotte was sitting beside Jack in the carriage, telling him about Garrard and Loretta in the conservatory, and the expressions she had seen in their faces.

Then she told him what she proposed to do next.

Ballarat agreed to see her with reluctance.

“My dear Mrs. Pitt, I am sorry you have been caused such distress, believe me,” he protested. “But there is really nothing I can do for you.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the soles of his feet and stood again in front of the fire. “I wish you wouldn’t harrow yourself in this way! Why don’t you go and stay with your family until, er ...” He stopped, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.

“Until they hang my husband,” she finished for him flatly.

He was acutely uncomfortable. “My dear lady, that is quite—”

She stared at him, and he had the grace to blush. But she had not come to antagonize him, and giving free rein to her feelings was self-indulgent and stupid. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with difficulty, swallowing her loathing of him because his fear was so much greater than his loyalty. “I came to tell you I have discovered something which I felt I must tell you immediately.” She ignored his exasperated expression and went on. “The woman in pink who was killed in Seven Dials was not the same woman in cerise whom Dulcie saw in the York house and Miss Adeline Danver saw on the landing in the Danver house. That woman is still alive, and is the witness that Thomas was looking for.”

A twinge of pity touched his face and vanished again. “Witness to what, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with an effort at patience. “And even if we could find this mysterious woman—if she exists—it would hardly help Pitt. The evidence is still there that he killed the woman in Seven Dials, whoever she was.” He sounded eminently reasonable, certain of his lightness.

“Yes it is!” Charlotte’s voice was rising and there was a sharp note of panic in it in spite of herself. “Someone dressed that woman in a pink dress and killed her to protect the real Cerise, and to get rid of Thomas at the same time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”

Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”

Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.

“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”

Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.

“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. Let him come after her and close it himself.

She knew what she must do. Ballarat had left her no choice. Had he promised to investigate she would have left it, but now there was nothing else she could think of. There was a ruthlessness in it of which she would not have thought herself capable, but it was shocking to her how easily it came, because she was fighting to protect those she loved more than herself, whose pain she could not bear as she might have her own. Her response was primal and nothing to do with the mind.

Charlotte had understood that look in Loretta’s face in the doorway of the conservatory. She was in love with Garrard Danver—totally, obsessively in love, which was not hard to believe. He had a grace, an individuality that was unusual. And he would be a challenge to most women; there was something elusive in him, the suggestion of great passion beneath his rather brittle shell and self-protective humor, if only one could find the secret of touching the heart or the soul inside. To lovely Loretta, bored with the charming but controlled Piers, the hint of something much wilder might be irresistible.

And obviously Garrard had loved only Cerise. All that hunger and flood of emotion, all Loretta dreamt of awakening herself, had been plain in his face when for a moment the sight of Charlotte outlined in the half light, and the flame of the dress, had stirred an anguished memory.

She must get them all together and press and press until someone broke. Garrard was the weakest link. He was afraid—she had seen that in his face too—and repelled by Loretta’s hunger for him. Charlotte could remember when a man had once felt such a lust for her and Caroline had blindly thought him suitable as a husband. Charlotte had been nearly hysterical when left alone with him briefly. It had seemed ridiculous later; Caroline had been angry, not understanding. It was years ago now and the incident had vanished from her mind, until she saw Garrard’s face in the lamplight and the peculiar mixture of horror, embarrassment, and revulsion brought it back with such precision that it made her skin crawl.

Garrard was the one she must press with all the force she had.

But there was no way within her power to make the Yorks invite the Danvers, the Ashersons, and herself, and no one else. They might not ever do it—certainly not within the few remaining days before Pitt would be arraigned and brought to trial. To have such a gathering in Emily’s house would be inexplicable, and Jack had no facilities either, although Emily would willingly have financed the event. No, the answer lay with Aunt Vespasia, and surely she would be willing.

Accordingly Charlotte abandoned the public omnibus and recklessly took a hansom cab to Aunt Vespasia’s house. Having paid the cabbie and released him, she climbed the shallow steps up to the front door and rang the bell. She had been here many times before and the maid showed not the slightest surprise at seeing her.