Cardington Crescent (22 page)

Table manners were quite as refined as those in the front dining room, and the discussion surely as stilted, but there was rather more of a domestic atmosphere. The food was complimented dish by dish as it was served, eaten, and cleared. The younger members’ manners were corrected gently but with a parental familiarity. There were giggles, blushes, sulks, just as Stripe could remember at his own home when he was growing up. Only the standards were strange and strict: elbows at sides, all green vegetables to be eaten or there was no pudding, no peas on the knife; speaking with the mouth full was reproved instantly, uninvited opinions quashed. For him to have mentioned death would have been gross bad taste, and murder unthinkable.

Involuntarily Stripe stole a look at Lettie, prim in white lace over her black, and found she was also looking at him. Even in the gaslight her eyes were just as blue. He looked away again quickly, and was too self-conscious to eat, afraid he would push peas off his plate onto the sparkling cloth.

“Is your meal not to your taste, Mr.—er, Stripe?” the housekeeper asked coolly.

“Oh, excellent, ma’am, thank you,” he answered. Then as they were still looking at him he felt something more was required, and went on. “I—I suppose my thoughts was a little taken up.”

“Well, I hope you in’t going to discuss them ’ere!” The cook blew down her nose in distaste. “Really! We’ve already ’ad Rosie in ’ysterics, and Marigold given notice and gone ’eavens knows where. I don’t know what things are coming to, I swear I don’t!”

“We’ve never had police in a house where I’ve been before,” Sybilla’s maid said stiffly. “Never. It’s only my loyalty that keeps me in this house a moment longer.”

“Neither have we!” Lettie answered her, so quickly the words tripped off her tongue before she had time to consider them. “But what do you want? That we should be left to be murdered in our beds with no one to protect us? I’m very
glad
they’re here.”

“Ha! I daresay
you
are.” the housekeeper said tartly.

Lettie blushed a deep pink. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” She looked down at her plate, and beside her one of the upstairs maids giggled, stifling it in her napkin when the butler glared at her.

Stripe felt an undeniable compulsion to defend her. How dare anyone slight her and cause her embarrassment!

“Very dignified of you, miss,” he said, looking straight at her. “Understandin’ adversity and takin’ it calm, like. Good sense is about the best cure for times like these. Lot of ’arm avoided if there was more who showed it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” Lettie said demurely. But the pinkness crept further up her cheeks, and he dared to hope it was pleasure.

The rest of the meal passed in conversation about trivialities, but when Stripe could no longer think of anything else to ask, Pitt having exhausted his duties in the front of the house, it was time to leave. He went with regret, replaced by a ridiculous elation as Lettie came down into the kitchen on some slight pretext, caught his eye and bade him good night, and then, swishing her skirt with an elegant little step, vanished up the stairs and into the hallway.

Stripe opened his mouth to reply, but it was too late. He turned and saw Pitt smiling, and knew his admiration—he would still call it that—was too plain in his face.

“Very nice,” Pitt said approvingly. “And sensible.”

“Er, yes, sir.”

Pitt’s smile widened. “But suspicious, Stripe, very suspicious. I think you had better question her a lot more—see what she knows.”

“Oh no, sir! She’s as—Oh.” He caught Pitt’s eye. “Yes, sir, I’ll do that, sir. Tomorrow morning, first thing, sir.”

“Good. And good luck, Stripe.”

But Stripe was too full of emotion to speak.

Upstairs in the dining room, dinner was worse than even Charlotte could have imagined. Everyone was there, including Emily, looking ashen with misery. All the women wore either black or gray, except Aunt Vespasia who always refused to. She wore lavender. The first course was served in near silence. By the time they had let their soup grow cold and pushed whitefish in a sauce like glue from one side of the plate to the other, the oppression was becoming unbearable.

“Impertinent little man!” Mrs. March burst out suddenly.

Everyone froze, horrified, wondering wildly whom she was addressing.

“I beg your pardon?” Jack Radley looked up, eyebrows raised.

“The policeman—Spot, or whatever his name is,” Mrs. March went on. “Asking the servants all sorts of questions about matters that are none of his business.”

“Stripe,” Charlotte said very quietly. It hardly mattered, but she was glad of an excuse to retaliate.

Mrs. March glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Stripe,” Charlotte repeated. “The policeman’s name is Stripe, not Spot.”

“Stripe, Spot, it’s all the same. I’d have thought you’d have more important things to remember than a policeman’s name.” Mrs. March stared at her, her face cold, eyes like bluish-green marbles. “What are you going to do with your sister? You can’t expect us to bear the burden of responsibility. God knows what she will do next!”

“That was uncalled for,” Jack Radley said furiously. There was instant and icy silence, but he was unabashed. “Emily has enough grief without our indulging in vicious and uninformed speculation.”

Mrs. March sniffed and cleared her throat. “Your speculation may be uninformed, Mr. Radley—although I doubt it. Mine is most certainly not. You may know Emily a great deal more intimately than I do, but you have not known her as long.”

“For heaven’s sake, Lavinia!” Vespasia said hoarsely. “Have you forgotten every vestige of good manners? Emily has buried her husband today, and we have guests at the table.”

Two spots of scarlet stained Mrs. March’s white cheeks. “I will not be criticized in my own house!” she said furiously, her voice rising to a shriek.

“Since you hardly ever leave it anymore, it would seem to be the only place available,” Aunt Vespasia snapped back at her.

“I might have expected that from you!” Mrs. March swung round to glare at Vespasia and knocked over a glass of water. It rolled across the cloth and dripped water noisily down into Jack Radley’s lap, soaking him to the skin, but he was too paralyzed with horror at the scene to move.

“You are perfectly accustomed to having the most vulgar people tramping through your house,” Mrs. March went on, “probing and prying, and talking of obscenities and God knows what among the criminal classes.”

Sybilla gasped and tore her handkerchief. Jack Radley looked at Vespasia in fascination.

“That’s nonsense!” Tassie flew to her favorite grandmother’s defense. “Nobody’s vulgar in front of Grandmama—she wouldn’t let them be! And Constable Stripe is only doing his duty.”

“And if somebody hadn’t murdered George, he wouldn’t have any duty to do in Cardington Crescent,” Eustace pointed out exasperatedly. “And don’t be impertinent to your grandmother, Anastasia, or I shall require you to finish your dinner upstairs in your room.”

Temper flashed in Tassie’s face, but she said nothing more. Her father had dismissed her in the past, and she knew he would do it quite easily now.

“George’s death is not Aunt Vespasia’s fault,” Charlotte said for her. “Unless you are suggesting she killed him?”

“Hardly.” Mrs. March sniffed again, a sound full of irritation and contempt. “Vespasia may be eccentric, even a little senile, but she is still one of us. She would never do such a fearful thing. And she is not your aunt.”

“You’ve tipped your water all over our guests,” Vespasia said curtly. “Poor Mr. Radley is soaked. Do look what you are doing, Lavinia.”

It was so trivial and idiotic it effectively silenced Mrs. March, and there were several moments of peace while the next course was served.

Eustace drew in his breath; his chest swelled. “We have a most distasteful time ahead of us,” he said looking round at each of them in turn. “Whatever our individual weaknesses, we none of us desire a
scandal.”
He let the word hang in the air. Vespasia closed her eyes and sighed gently. Sybilla still sat totally mute, disregarding everyone, self-absorbed. William looked at Emily, and there was a flash of profound, almost wounding pity in his face.

“I don’t see how we can avoid it, Papa,” Tassie said into the silence. “If it really was murder. Personally I think it was probably some sort of accident, in spite of what Mr. Pitt says. Why on earth would anyone want to kill George?”

“You are very young, child,” Mrs. March said with a curl of her lips. “And very ignorant. There are a multitude of things you do not know, and probably never will, unless you fill out a little and manage to hide all those freckles. To the rest of us it is perfectly obvious, if excessively distasteful.” Again she let her fish-blue eyes rest on Emily.

Tassie opened her mouth to retaliate but closed it again. Charlotte felt a sudden surge of anger for her. Above all things being patronized galled her soul.

“Neither do I,” she said bluntly, “know of any reason why someone should have killed George.”

“You would say that, wouldn’t you.” Mrs. March stared at her malevolently. “I always said George married badly.”

Fire rushed up Charlotte’s cheeks and the blood pounded in her temples. The hard, accusing look in the old woman’s eyes was too plain to misunderstand. She thought Emily had murdered George and intended to see her punished for it.

She gulped air and then hiccuped loudly. Everyone was looking at her, their faces a pale sea mirrored with eyes, horrified, embarrassed, compassionate, accusing. She hiccuped again.

Next to her William leaned forward, poured her a glass of water, and passed it to her. She took it from him in silence, hiccuping once more, then drank a little and tried holding her breath, her napkin held to her lips.

“At least George’s wife was his own choice.” Vespasia filled the void with chipped ice. “He was encumbered with
his
family regardless of his wishes, and I think there were times when he found it distinctly a burden.”

“You have no notion of loyalty, Mama-in-law!” Eustace said with a slight flaring of his nostrils and a warning note in his voice.

“None at all,” she agreed. “I always felt it a spurious value to defend what is wrong merely because you are related to its perpetrators.”

“Quite.” Eustace avoided Charlotte’s eyes and looked at Emily. “If we find that the—offender—is one of this family, we will still do our duty, painful as it may be, and see that they are locked away. But discreetly. We do not wish the innocent to be hurt as well, and there are many to consider. The family must be preserved.” He flashed a smile at Sybilla. “Some people,” he continued, “ignorant people, can be most unkind. They are apt to tar all of us with the same brush. And now that Sybilla is at last to bear us a child”—his tone was suddenly jubilant, and he gave William a conspiratorial glance—“we trust, the first of many, we must look to the future.”

Emily had a suffocating feeling of being crowded in. She looked at Mrs. March, who looked away, dabbing stupidly at the water she had spilled across the cloth, but it had long since soaked in. Jack Radley gave a half smile, but it died on his lips as he thought better of it.

William had eaten little and now he stopped altogether. His face was as white as the sauce on the fish. Emily already knew him well enough to be aware that he was an acutely private man, and such open discussion of so personal a subject was agonizing to him. She looked away along the table to Sybilla.

But Sybilla was gazing at William, then at Eustace, her face filled with a loathing so intense it was incredible he should be unaware of it.

Tassie picked up her wineglass, and it slipped through her fingers to crash on the table, spilling wine everywhere. Emily had no doubt whatsoever she had done it on purpose. Her eyes were wide, like pits in the bleached skin of her face.

Sybilla was the first to recover. She forced a smile that was painful, worse than the hate before because of the effort behind it. “Never mind,” she said huskily. “It’s a white wine—I daresay it will wash quite easily. Would you like some more?”

Tassie opened her mouth soundlessly, and closed it again.

Emily stared at William, and he looked back at her, ashen, and with a complexity of emotions she could not unravel. It could have been anything, most probably pity for her; perhaps he also believed she had murdered her husband in a frenzy of hopeless jealousy, and that was what he pitied her for. Perhaps he even felt he understood. Was it Eustace, with his complacency, his boundless energy, his virility which had ultimately exhausted Olivia, who had shadowed William’s marriage for so long? Was he terrified Sybilla would die of excessive childbearing, as his mother had done? Or had he never loved Sybilla deeply anyway? Maybe he even loved someone else. Society was full of empty marriages at all levels; since marriage was the only acceptable state for a woman, one could not afford to be pernickety.

She looked at Eustace, but he was busy again with his food. He had problems to consider: keeping his family from hysteria, preventing scandal in Society, and preserving the reputation of the Marches—especially of William and Sybilla, now that the longed-for heir was to come. Emily was an embarrassment, threatening rapidly, if the old lady were to be believed, to become something far worse. He sliced a piece of meat viciously, squeaking his knife on the plate, and his face remained in deep concentration.

Emily looked across the table at Jack Radley. His eyes were candid and startlingly soft. He had been watching her already, before she looked at him. She realized how often she had seen that expression in him recently. He was attracted to her, very strongly so, and it was deeper than the triviality of a flirtation.

Oh, God! Had he killed George for her? Did he really imagine that she would marry him now?

The room swayed around her and there was a roaring sound in her ears as if she were underwater. The walls disappeared and suddenly she could not breathe. She was far too hot ... suffocating ...

“Emily! Emily!” The voice was booming and fuzzy, and yet very close to her. She was sitting on one of the side chairs, half reclining. It was uncomfortable and precarious. She felt as if she might slide off if she were to move. It had been Charlotte’s voice. “You are perfectly all right,” she said quietly. “You fainted. We expected too much of you. Mr. Radley will carry you upstairs, and I’ll help you to bed.”