Cardington Crescent (27 page)

Still looking at him, his eyes now hot and furious—perhaps he was as frightened as she was—she scrambled very awkwardly out from under the bed and stood up, rumpled and stiff, her legs shaking.

“That book does not belong to you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said grimly. “Give it to me!”

“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she answered with as much courage as she could. He was very strong, thick-chested, broad-hipped, and he stood between her and the door. “I shall give it to the police.”

“No, you won’t.” He reached out and took her arm. His fingers closed right around her, immovably.

Her breath almost choked her. “Are you going to tear my dress off to get it, Mr. March?” She tried to make her voice light, and failed. “That will be extremely awkward for you to explain, and I shall scream—and you won’t pass this off as a nightmare!”

“And how will you account for being here in Sybilla’s room?” he asked. But he was afraid, and she smelled it in the air, felt it in the bruising pressure of his fingers.

“How will you?”

His mouth flickered in the sickest of smiles. “I shall say I heard a sound in here and came in, and I found you going through Sybilla’s jewel case—the reason for that will be painfully obvious.”

“Then I shall say the same!” she countered. “Only it was not the jewel case, it was the vanity case under the bed. And I shall say you found the diary, and then everyone will read what is in it!”

His hand weakened. She saw the fear deepen in his face and sweat break out through the skin of his upper lip and above his eyebrows.

“Let me go, Mr. March, or I shall call out. There must be maids around, and Aunt Vespasia is in her room across the landing.”

Slowly, an inch at a time, he took his hand away, and she waited till it was fully gone, just in case he changed his mind, before she turned and walked, legs wobbling, to the door and out onto the landing. She felt light-headed and a little sick with relief. She must find Thomas immediately.

C
HARLOTTE FOUND PITT
in the butler’s pantry and threw the door open, interrupting Constable Stripe in midsentence, and barely hesitating to apologize.

“Thomas! I’ve discovered the answer, or at least one of the answers—excuse me, Constable—in Sybilla’s diary, something I never even thought of.” She stopped abruptly. Now that they were both staring at her she felt vulnerable for the secret she had discovered. Not for Eustace—she would happily have seen him humiliated. But for Sybilla she felt unexplainably naked.

“What have you found?” Pitt asked anxiously, his eyes wide, seeing the fear and the flush in her face more than hearing her words. There was no triumph in her.

She glanced at Stripe—only for a moment, but he saw it, and instantly she was sorry. She swung round to turn her back to him, unbuttoned her dress just enough to pull out the diary, and handed it to Pitt.

“Christmas Eve,” she said very quietly. “Read the entry for Christmas Eve, last year, and then the very last one.”

He took the book and opened it, riffling through the pages till he came to December, then turned them one by one. Finally he stopped altogether, and she watched his face as he read it, the mixture of anger and disgust slowly blurring and becoming inextricably confounded with pity. He read the end.

“And he killed George over her.” He looked up at Charlotte, and passed the book without explanation to Stripe. “I suppose poor Sybilla knew, or guessed.”

“I wonder why he didn’t look for the book when he killed her,” she said with quiet unhappiness.

“Maybe he heard something,” Pitt replied. “Someone else awake—even Emily coming. And he dared not wait.”

Charlotte shuddered. “Are you going to arrest him?”

He hesitated, weighing the question, looking at Stripe, whose face was red and unhappy.

“No,” he answered flatly. “Not yet. This isn’t proof. He could deny it all, say it was Sybilla’s imagination. Without any other evidence, it’s only her word against his. To make it known now would hurt William, perhaps even cause more violence and more tragedy.” His mouth moved in the faintest of smiles. “Let Eustace wait and worry for a while. Let’s see what he does.” He looked at Charlotte. “You said there was another book, with addresses?”

“Yes.”

“Then we had better get that as well. It may mean nothing, but we’ll check through them all, see who they are.”

Charlotte went obediently back to the door. Pitt hesitated, looking at Stripe with a half smile. “Sorry, Stripe, but I shall need you for this, and it may take some time.”

For a moment Stripe did not understand the reason for the apology; then his face fell and the pink crept up his cheeks.

“Yes, sir. Er ...” His head came up. “Would there be time, sir ... ?”

“Of course there would,” Pitt agreed. “But don’t waste words. Be back here in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir!” Stripe waited only until Charlotte and Pitt were round the corner in the corridor before he shot out, stopped the first maid he saw, which chanced to be the parlormaid, and asked her where Miss Taylor was at that moment.

He looked so urgent and impressive in his uniform that she responded immediately, without her usual prevarication towards strangers in the house—especially of the lower orders, such as police, chimney sweeps, and the like.

“In the stillroom, sir.”

“Thank you!” He turned on his heel and made his way, past the other small rooms for numerous household duties, to the stillroom, which had originally been used for the making of cordials and perfumes but was now largely for tea, coffee, and the storing of sweetmeats.

Lettie was putting a large fruitcake into a tin and she turned at the rather heavy sound of his feet. She was even prettier than last time he saw her. He had not noticed before how her hair swept off her brow, or how delicate her ears were.

“Good morning, Mr. Stripe,” she said with a little sniff. “If you’ve come to look at this coffee, you’re welcome, I’m sure, but there’s no point. It’s all new in—”

Stripe brought his mind to attention. “No, I didn’t,” he said more firmly than he would have believed. “We’ve got some new evidence.”

She was interested in spite of herself, and frightened. She liked to tell herself she was independent, but in truth she had a strong loyalty to the household, especially Tassie, and she would have gone to great lengths to prevent any of them being hurt, especially by outsiders. She stood still, staring up at Stripe, her mind racing over what he might say and how she should answer.

She gulped. “Have you?”

He wished he could comfort her, reassure her, but he dared not—not yet.

“I’m going to ’ave to go away to look into it.”

“Oh!” She looked startled, then disappointed. Then as she saw the pleasure in his face and realized she had betrayed herself, she straightened so stiffly her back was like a ramrod, and her chin so high her neck hurt. “Indeed, an’ I suppose that’s your duty, Mr. Stripe.” She did not trust herself to go on. It was ridiculous to be upset over a policeman, of all things!

“I may be quite a time,” he went on. “Might even find the solution—and not come back again.”

“I hope you do. We don’t want terrible things like this happening and no one caught.” She moved as if to turn back to the cake tin and the rows of tea caddies, but changed her mind. She was confused, not certain whether she was angry with him or not.

Pitt’s admonition was ringing in his ears. Time was sliding by. All must be won or lost now. He screwed up his courage and plunged in, staring at the Chinese flower design on the jar behind her. “So I came to say as I’d like it very much if I could call on you, personal, like.”

She drew in her breath quickly, but since he was not looking at her he could not judge the reason.

“Perhaps you’d come with me for a walk in the park, when the band’s playing? It can be ...” He hesitated again and met her eyes at last. “Most pleasant,” he finished, cheeks hot.

“Thank you, Mr. Stripe,” she said quickly. Half of her told herself she was crazy, walking out with a policeman! What on earth would her father have said? The other half was tingling with delight—it was what she had wanted most in the world for about three days. She swallowed hard. “That sounds very agreeable.”

He beamed with relief, then, collecting his composure, remembered a little dignity and stood to attention.

“Thank you, Miss Taylor. If my duties take me away I’ll write you a letter and”—in a wave of triumph—“I’ll call for you at three o’clock on Sunday afternoon!” And he left before she could demur.

She waited only until his footsteps had died away. Then she jammed the rest of the tea she was sorting all into one jar, and ran upstairs to tell Tassie, a remarkable amount of whose own secrets she herself shared.

Charlotte sat on the edge of her bed struggling with her growing desire to escape going down to dinner altogether. Pitt had gone with the address book to pursue the names in it and she felt a chill without him. Facing Eustace across the table would be appalling. He must surely know beyond question that she had shown the diary to Pitt, and that Pitt must be weighing whether to make it public.

And what of William? His own father, who so clearly despised him, with the wife to whom he had written such love letters! It would be unbearable. It was that which hardened in her mind the already half-made decision not to tell Emily. Let no one know who did not have to. It was not certain beyond any other possibility that Eustace had murdered George in a passion of jealousy; after all, he could hardly imagine any claim on Sybilla. If he was driven by jealousy it could only be if she had refused him in George’s favor.

Then a coldness drenched her, much stronger, more sure in its grasp. Of course. Sybilla dared not look to William for protection, both because she would not wish him ever to know of her first weakness—lunacy, as she had called it—and because she was afraid for him if he and Eustace quarreled. Eustace might in malice make sure everyone else knew he had cuckolded his own son. She could imagine the old lady’s face if she heard—and Tassie, who loved William with such sensitivity.

No. Far better, far wiser for Sybilla to seek her defense in George, who could be so startlingly considerate at times, when he understood the wound. He was loyal, without judgment; he would have helped her and kept silent.

Only he had done the unforeseen and become enchanted with her himself, and there had begun the unraveling of all the plan.

And then Jack—Jack had understood and helped her as well. But understood how much?

She would tell Emily nothing. Not yet.

But, dear heaven, she did not want to go through the charade of dinner! How could she excuse herself? To the company it would be easy: she had a headache, she was unwell. There would be no need to explain that; women were always getting headaches, and she had certainly had enough to justify one.

Aunt Vespasia would be concerned for her and send Digby with medicines and advice. Emily would miss her at table, and what excuse would satisfy her, or Thomas? He would not accept a headache. He would expect her to go down, and watch, and listen. That was the reason she had given him for remaining here at all. Ladies with servants might take to their beds with the vapors; working women were expected to keep on, even with fevers or consumption. He would see it for an attack of cowardice—exactly as it was. On the whole, facing Eustace was the lesser evil.

At least, she thought so until she sat down at the table, determined not to look at him, and in her very consciousness of him ended by meeting his eyes precisely when he was staring at her. She averted her gaze instantly, but it was too late. The chicken in her mouth turned to wet sawdust, her hands were clammy, and she all but dropped her fork. Surely everyone else must be looking at her, too, and wondering what on earth was the matter with her. It could only be politeness that kept them from asking. She was staring at the white ice sheet of the tablecloth, away from the dazzling facets of the chandeliers and the light on the cut glass of the cruet sets, but all her mind saw was Eustace’s face.

“I think the weather is going to break,” old Mrs. March said joylessly. “I hate wet summers; at least in winter one can sit by a decent fire without feeling ridiculous.”

“You have a fire all through the year anyway,” Vespasia replied. “That boudoir of yours would suffocate a cat!”

“I don’t keep cats,” Mrs. March replied instantly. “I don’t like them. Insolent creatures, don’t care for anyone but themselves, and there is more than enough selfishness in the world already without adding cats to it. But I did have a dog”—she shot a look of intense hatred at Emily—“until somebody killed it.”

“If it hadn’t preferred George to you it wouldn’t have happened.” Vespasia pushed her plate away in disgust. “Poor little creature.”

“And if George hadn’t preferred Sybilla to Emily, none of it would.” Mrs. March was not to be beaten, especially not at her own table in front of strangers whom she despised, and not by Vespasia, whom she had resented for forty years.

“You said before that it was because Emily preferred Mr. Radley,” Charlotte interrupted, looking at the old lady with raised eyebrows. “Have you discovered something that changed your mind?”

“I think the less you have to say the better, young woman!” Mrs. March flicked a scornful eye over her and continued eating.

“I thought perhaps you had learned something new,” Charlotte murmured. Then, impelled by an inner compulsion, she looked sideways at Eustace.

It was an extraordinary expression she surprised on his face—not exactly fear—something that had superceded it, half curiosity. He was the supreme hypocrite, self-important and insensitive, plowing on in his obsession with dynasty, regardless of the trampling of subtle and private emotions. But she realized with uncomfortable surprise that he did not lack courage. He was beginning to regard her in a way quite different from the uninterested condescension which had possessed him before. She read in that one glance that she had become not only an adversary, but a woman. The passage in the diary came back to her as sharply as if it were on the tablecloth in front of her—
What manhood he has!—
and she felt her face flame. The thought was so profoundly repellent her hands shook, her fork clattering on the plate. Perhaps Sybilla had made other references, obliquely—even in detail! Her face was burning; she felt as if her dress had come undone in front of everyone, especially Eustace. He might even know what she had read, and more. He might in his own mind be repeating the words, and sharing them with her, imagining her response. She shuddered. Then, because civility demanded it, she looked up—and found Jack Radley, seated beside Emily, regarding her with concern.