Bluegate Fields (26 page)

“A what?” Aunt Vespasia’s eyebrows shot up again.

“A—a woman of loose behavior,” Charlotte repeated rather awkwardly. She had no idea how much a lady of Aunt Vespasia’s generation might know about such things.

“Do you mean a street woman?” Aunt Vespasia inquired. “Because if you do, then for goodness’ sake girl, say so! ‘Loose behavior’ could mean anything! I know duchesses whose conduct could well be described by such a term. What about this woman? What has she to do with it? Surely this wretched tutor did not kill the boy in jealousy over some whore?”

“Really!” Emily said under her breath, more in amazement than any moral comment.

Aunt Vespasia gave her a chilly glance.

“It is quite repellent, I agree,” she said bluntly. “But then so is the idea of murder at all. It does not become nice merely because the motive is something like money!” She turned back to Charlotte. “Please explain yourself a little more clearly. What has this woman to do with it? Has she a name? I am beginning to forget whom I am speaking about.”

“Abigail Winters.” There was no point whatever in trying to be delicate anymore. “Arthur Waybourne was found by the police surgeon to have a disease. Since the tutor did not have it, he must have contracted it elsewhere.”

“Obviously!”

“Abigail Winters said that the tutor, Jerome, had taken Arthur to her. He was a voyeur as well! Arthur contracted the disease from her—she does have it.”

“How singularly unpleasant.” Aunt Vespasia wrinkled her long nose very slightly. “Still, an occupational risk, I imagine. But if the boy has it, and this Jerome person was meddling with him—why did he not also have it? You say he did not?”

Emily sat upright suddenly, her face alight.

“Charlotte?” she said with a sharp lift of her voice.

“No,” Charlotte said slowly. “No—and that doesn’t make sense, does it! If the affair was still going on, he should have. Or are some people immune to it?”

“My dear girl!” Vespasia stared, fumbling for her pince-nez to observe Charlotte more closely. “How on earth should I know? I imagine so, or a great deal of society would have it who apparently do not—from what one is told. But it would bear thinking on! What else? So far, we have the words of two youths of a most unreliable age—and a woman of the streets. There must be more?”

“Yes—a—a male prostitute, aged seventeen.” Her anger about Albie came stinging through her voice. “He began when he was thirteen—he was doubtless more or less sold into it. He swore Jerome had been a regular customer of his. That was the chief way we know that he is ...” She avoided the word “homosexual” and left its meaning hanging in the air.

Aunt Vespasia was happy to allow her the liberty. Her face was somber.

“Thirteen,” she repeated, frowning. “That is truly one of the most obscene offenses of our society, that we permit such things to happen. And the youth—he too has a name, presumably? He says that this wretched tutor was his customer? What about the boy, Arthur—was he also?”

“Apparently not, but then he would not be likely to admit it if he could avoid doing so,” Charlotte reasoned, “since Arthur was murdered. No one admits to knowing a person who has been murdered, if they can avoid it—not if they would be suspected.”

“Quite. What an extremely distasteful affair. I presume you have told me all this because you believe the tutor, what’s-his-name, to be innocent?”

Now that it came to the point, it was impossible even to prevaricate.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said bluntly. “But it’s so convenient, it closes it up so tidily that I think we haven’t bothered to prove it properly. And if we hang him, it’s too late after that!”

Aunt Vespasia sighed very gently. “I imagine Thomas is not able to prove the matter any further, since the trial will be considered to have ended all questions.” It was an observation rather than a request for information. “What alternative solutions do you have in mind? That this miserable child Arthur may have had other lovers—possibly even have set up in business in a mild way for himself?” Her fine mouth turned down delicately at the corners. “An undertaking fraught with all manner of dangers, one would have thought. One wonders for a start whether he procured his own custom, or whether he had a business partner, a protector, who did it for him. He can hardly have used his own home for such a concern! What order of money was involved, and what happened to it? Was money at the root of it, after all, for whatever reason? Yes, I see that there are a number of avenues to explore, none of which would be pleasing to the families.

“Emily said you were a social disaster. I fear she was being somewhat generous to you—you are a catastrophe! Where do you wish to begin?”

In fact, they began with an exceedingly formal call upon Callantha Swynford, since she was the only person connected with the affair whom Vespasia had any personal acquaintance with. And even then, it took them some mind-searching to concoct an adequate excuse, including two conversations upon that marvelous new instrument, the telephone, which Aunt Vespasia had had installed and used with the greatest enjoyment.

They drove in her carriage as soon after luncheon as was considered acceptable to visit. They presented calling cards to the parlormaid, who was duly impressed by the presence of not merely one but two titled ladies. She showed them in almost immediately.

The withdrawing room was more than pleasant; it was both gracious and comfortable, a combination unfortunately rare. A large fire burned in the grate, giving a feeling of warmth and life. The room was cluttered with far less than the usual forest of family portraits; it was even devoid of the customary stuffed animals and dried flowers under glass.

Callantha Swynford was also a surprise, at least to Charlotte. She had expected someone portly and self-satisfied, perhaps inordinately pleased with her own good sense. Instead, Callantha was on the lean side, with white skin and freckles, which in her youth she had doubtless spent hours endeavoring to remove, or at least to mask. Now she ignored them, and they complemented her russet-colored hair in a surprisingly attractive way. She was not beautiful; her nose was too high and long for that, and her mouth too large. But she was certainly handsome, and, more than that, she possessed individuality.

“How charming of you to call, Lady Cumming-Gould,” she said with a smile, extending her hand and inviting the ladies to sit down. “And Lady Ashworth—” Charlotte had not presented a card, and she was at a loss. No one helped her.

“My cousin Angelica is indisposed.” Aunt Vespasia lied as easily as if she were reading the time. “She was so sorry not to renew your acquaintance in person, and told me to say how much she enjoyed meeting you. She asked me if I would call upon you instead, so you would not feel she was cool in your friendship. Since I had my niece Lady Ashworth and her sister Charlotte already in my company, I felt you would not be inconvenienced if they were to call also.”

“Of course not.” Callantha gave the only possible answer. “I am delighted to make their acquaintance. How very thoughtful of Angelica. I hope her indisposition is nothing serious?”

“I should imagine not.” Aunt Vespasia waved it away with her hand, very delicately, as though it were something vaguely indecent to discuss. “One gets these little afflictions from time to time.”

Callantha understood immediately; it was something it would be kinder not to refer to again.

“Of course,” she agreed. They all knew the danger of her comparing notes with Angelica was now taken care of.

“What a delightful room.” Charlotte looked about her and was able to comment quite genuinely. “I do admire your choice. I feel comfortable immediately.”

“Oh, do you?” Callantha seemed quite surprised. “I am delighted you think so. Many people find it too bare. I imagine they expect rather more in the way of family portraits and such.”

Charlotte seized her chance; it might not come again so felicitously.

“I always think a few pictures of quality that really catch the essence of a person are of far more value than a great number that are merely likenesses,” she replied. “I cannot help observing the excellent portrait over the mantel. Is that your daughter? Great-Aunt Vespasia mentioned that you have a son and a daughter. She is quite charming, and she looks already as if she may grow to resemble you.”

Callantha smiled, glancing at the painting.

“Yes, indeed, that is Fanny. It was painted about a year ago, and she is quite unbecomingly proud of it. I must curb her. Vanity is not a quality one dare encourage. And to be frank, she is not in the least a beauty. Such charm as she has will lie within her personality.” She pulled a small face, a little rueful, perhaps echoing memories of her own youth.

“But that is far better!” Charlotte approved with conviction. “Beauty fades, and often disastrously quickly, whereas with a little attention, character can improve indefinitely! I am sure I should like Fanny very much.”

Emily gave her a sour look, and Charlotte knew she felt she was being too obvious. But then Callantha had no idea why they had called.

“You are very generous,” she murmured politely.

“Not at all,” Charlotte demurred. “I often think beauty is a very mixed blessing, especially in the young. It can lead to so many unfortunate associations. Too much praise, too much admiration, and I have seen even some of the nicest people led astray, because they were innocent, sheltered by a decent family, so did not realize the shallowness or the vice that can exist behind the mask of flattery.”

A shadow passed across Callantha’s face. Charlotte felt guilty for bringing up the subject so blatantly, but there was no time to waste in being subtle.

“Indeed,” she continued, “I have even seen instances in my acquaintance where unusual beauty has led a young person to acquire power over others, and then quite abuse it, to their own undoing in the end—and most unfortunately, to the misfortune of those involved with them as well.” She took a deep breath. “Whereas true charm of personality can do nothing but good. I think you are most fortunate.” She remembered that Jerome had tutored Fanny in Latin. “And of course intelligence is one of the greatest of gifts. Foolishness can sometimes be overcome if one is safeguarded from its effects by a loving and patient family. But how much more of the world’s joys are open to you if you have sensibility of your own, and how many pitfalls avoided.” Did she sound as priggish as she felt? But it was difficult to approach the subject, retain a modicum of good manners, and not sound hopelessly pompous at the same time.

“Oh, Fanny has plenty of intelligence,” Callantha said with a smile. “In fact, she is a better student than her brother, or either of—” She stopped.

“Yes?” Charlotte and Emily said, leaning forward in hopeful inquiry.

Callantha’s face paled. “I was going to say ‘either of her cousins,’ but her elder cousin died some weeks ago.”

“I’m so sorry.” Again Emily and Charlotte spoke together, affecting total surprise. “How very hard to bear,” Emily went on. “It was a sudden illness?”

Callantha hesitated, perhaps weighing the chances of getting away with a lie. In the end she decided on the truth. After all, the case had been written up in the newspapers, and although ladies of excellent upbringing would not read such things, it was impossible to avoid hearing gossip—supposing anyone were even to try!

“No—no, he was killed.” She still avoided the word “murder.” “I’m afraid it was all very dreadful.”

“Oh, dear!” Emily was a better actress than Charlotte; she always had been. And she had not lived with the story from the beginning; she could affect ignorance. “How terribly distressing for you! I do hope we have not called at an inappropriate time?” It was really an unnecessary question. One could not cease all social life every time a relative died, unless it were in the immediate family, or else the number of one’s relatives and the frequency of death would cause one to be forever in mourning.

“No, no.” Callantha shook her head. “It is most pleasant to see you.”

“Perhaps,” Aunt Vespasia said, “it would be possible for you to come to a small soiree at my house in Gadstone Park, if you are accepting invitations. I should be delighted to see you, and your husband also, if he wishes and is free of business functions? I have not met him, but I’m sure he is charming. I will send the footman with an invitation.”

Charlotte’s heart sank. It was Titus and Fanny she wanted to talk to, not Mortimer Swynford!

“I am sure he would enjoy that as much as I,” Callantha said. “I had intended to invite Angelica to an afternoon entertainment, a new pianist who has been much praised. I have planned it for Saturday. I hope she will have recovered by then. But in any case, I should be delighted if you would all come. We shall be ladies, in the main, but if Lord Ashworth or your husband would care to come?” She turned from one to the other of them.

“Of course!” Emily glowed with anticipation. The object was achieved. The men would not come; that was understood. She darted a look across at Charlotte. “Perhaps we shall meet Fanny? I admit I am quite intrigued—I shall look forward to it.”

“And I also,” Charlotte agreed. “Very much.”

Aunt Vespasia rose. They had been long enough for the strict duty call they professed it to be, and certainly long enough for a first visit. Most important, their purpose was achieved. With great dignity she took leave for all of them, and, after the appropriate civilities had been exchanged, swept them out to the carriage.

“Excellent,” she said as they seated themselves, arranging their skirts so as to be crushed as little as possible before the next call. “Charlotte, did you say this wretched child was only thirteen when he began his disgusting trade?”

“Albie Frobisher? Yes, so he said. He looked only a little more now—he’s very thin and underdeveloped—no beard at all.”

“And how do you know, may I ask?” Aunt Vespasia fixed her with a cool eye.

“I was in the courtroom,” Charlotte replied without thinking. “I saw him.”

“Were you indeed?” Aunt Vespasia’s brows shot up and her face looked very long. “Your conduct becomes more extraordinary by the moment. Tell me more. In fact, tell me everything! Or, no—not yet. We are going to visit Mr. Somerset Carlisle. I daresay you remember him?”