Cardington Crescent (28 page)

“Have you discovered something?” Tassie added with distressing perspicacity.

“No!” Charlotte denied too quickly. “I don’t know who it was—I don’t know at all!”

“Then you’re a fool,” Mrs. March said viciously. “Or a liar. Or both.”

“Then we are all fools or liars.” William laid his napkin beside his untouched plate. Where others had pushed the food around and eaten a mouthful or two, he had not even pretended.

“We are not all fools.” Eustace did not look at Charlotte, but she knew as well as if he had that he was speaking to her. “Doubtless one of us knows who killed George and Sybilla, but the rest of us have sufficient wisdom not to speculate aloud on every thought that comes into our minds. It can only cause unnecessary grief. We must remember Christian charity as well as righteous indignation.”

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” Vespasia demanded with startling anger. “Christian charity towards whom? And why? You never had an ounce of charity in you all your life. Why the sudden about-face? Are you on the other end, for once?”

Eustace looked as if he had been struck. He fumbled for a reply but found nothing that shielded him from her brilliant suspicion.

Not because she cared a lot about Eustace, but because she must defend William from the humiliation—above all, from Eustace himself—Charlotte interrupted with the first thing that came into her head.

“We all have things to hide,” she said overly loud. “Foolishness, if not guilt. I have seen enough investigations to know that. Perhaps Mr. March is just beginning to learn. I’m sure he would wish to protect his family, whether he is concerned for the rest of us or not. He may believe Emily will not retaliate, no matter what is said of her, but I don’t think he misjudges me in the same way.”

Vespasia was silent. If she thought anything more she preferred not to say it now.

William looked at her with the shadow of a smile, so thin it was painful, and Jack Radley put his hand on Emily’s arm.

“Indeed?” Mrs. March regarded Charlotte with a curl of her lip. “And what on earth could you say that my son would care about in the slightest?”

Charlotte forced a smile to her face. “You are inviting me to do precisely what we have just agreed would be most unfortunate—cause unnecessary distress by speculation. Is that not so, Mr. March?” She lifted her eyes and met Eustace’s.

He was surprised, and a series of thoughts flashed through his mind so vividly she could trace them as if they had been pictures: alarm, temporary safety, a budding irony—a perception new to him—and finally, a reluctant admiration.

She had a hideous feeling that at that precise moment, had she wished, she might have filled the place so lately left by Sybilla, but this time she stared him out, and it was he who lowered his eyes.

Still she slept badly. She had not offered Aunt Vespasia any explanation of her extraordinary confrontation with Eustace, and she felt guilty for it. Emily was still too absorbed in her own grief and the weight of fear that haunted her to have noticed.

It was long after midnight when she heard the noise outside, very slight, as of a pebble falling. Then it came again and she was surer of it. She got out of bed and went to the window, careful to disturb the curtain as little as possible, and looked out. She could see nothing but the familiar garden in the hazy light of a half moon.

Then the noise came again; a tiny, thin
plink.
A pebble fell from above, touched the sill, and bounced out and into the void. She did not hear it land. Still she could see no one. They must be standing so close to one of the ornamental bushes that one shadow consumed them both.

An assignation for one of the housemaids? Surely not! A girl caught in such an act would lose not only her present position and the roof over her head, but her character also, which would preclude any future position as well. She would be reduced to the grim choices of a sweatshop or the streets, where she must live by thievery or prostitution. Even the hot flush of romance seldom inspired such dangerous abandon. There were better ways.

Whose window was above hers? Everyone had bedrooms on this floor—except Tassie! Tassie had kept her old childhood bedroom in the nursery wing upstairs, to leave sufficient guest rooms free.

Charlotte made up her mind instantly; any time for thought and her nerve would fail. She did not bother with underwear but grasped her warmest, plainest dark dress, climbed into it, and pulled on her boots and buttoned them, fumbling in the dark. She dared not light one of the lamps. Even with the curtains drawn the watcher outside might see it. She had no time to do more with her hair than tie it back. Then, having found her coat, she waited behind the door, straining her ears, till she heard the very faintest footfall on the landing.

She waited a moment longer, then opened the door and went out silently, closing it after her. At the head of the stairs she was just in time to see a shadow at the bottom turn and disappear, not towards the front but in the direction of the baize door and the kitchens. Of course—the front door had bolts on it which could not be fastened from the outside. In the scullery one of the servants would be blamed.

She ran down as quickly as she could, holding her skirts. She must be careful not to make a sound or get so close that Tassie might glance backwards and see her.

Was she sleepwalking? Or taken by some intermittent madness? Or quite sane, but about some dreadful business that splashed her with blood?

For a moment Charlotte hesitated. It was a delusion to say it could not be anything grotesque; horrors did happen, she knew it only too well. Before George’s death Pitt had been called to a case of murder so horrific even he had come home white-lipped and sick—a woman dismembered and left in parcels round Bloomsbury and St. Giles.

She was standing rigid, alone in the hallway. Ahead of her the baize door had almost stopped swinging. Tassie must be in the scullery by now. There was no more time to decide: either she followed her and learned the truth, or she went back to bed.

The door was perfectly still. If she did not hurry she would lose Tassie. Without allowing herself to think any longer she crossed the last few steps of the hall and pushed through the door and into the servants’ wing. The kitchens were deserted, smelling clean and warm; odors of scrubbed wood, flour, and, as she passed the stoves, coal dust. She could see the gleam of light on the scuttles from the streetlamp through the window. The scullery was piled with vegetables and buckets and mops. Her skirt caught against the handle of a pail and she stopped only just before it overbalanced and crashed down onto the stone floor.

The outer door ahead of her was closed; Tassie had already gone. Charlotte tried the handle and found it turned easily.

Outside the night was only a little cooler than the house. There was no breeze here in the high-walled yard. The sky was shredded with a few faint mares’ tails of cloud, but the half moon shed a milky light in which she could see the back windows, the housing of the chute down into the coal cellars, several bins for rubbish, and at the far side, the gate out into the areaway and the street, and the yellow globe of a lamp above the wall. Tassie was somewhere out on the road.

Carefully lifting the latch with both hands and holding it so it would not fall, Charlotte pulled the gate open and looked outside. To the left there was nothing but the pavement; to the right, the slender figure of Tassie walking rapidly down the Crescent.

Charlotte followed, closing the gate behind her and hurrying a dozen yards before Tassie disappeared round the corner into the main avenue. Now she was free to run without fear of drawing attention to herself. There was no one else in sight, and if she delayed Tassie might be gone when she emerged into the avenue herself. Then she would never know what violent intrigue took a nineteen-year-old heiress out in the small hours of the night and brought her home reeking with blood.

But when she got to the corner and raced round it, stopping suddenly in case her feet on the cobbles were too loud and made Tassie turn, she saw no one at all along the broad sweep of the tree-lined way. Charlotte stood with the frustration boiling up inside her—and saw Tassie come out of the shadow of a sycamore fifty yards ahead, moving very quickly.

Charlotte had been too slow. She had not imagined such haste, and now if she were to keep Tassie in sight she must run, as light-footed as possible, and within the shadows as much as she could. If Tassie were to realize she was being followed, at best any chance of discovering her secret would be lost, and the worst hardly bore thinking of—a fight with a madwoman alone in the midnight streets. That blood had come from someone!

If Pitt knew about this he would be furious—he would quite probably never forgive her. The very thought of the words he would use made her cringe. But it was not his sister who faced trial and the gallows if they failed. Even a reasonable and fair-minded person would have to agree that Emily had as good a motive for murdering her husband as most women could imagine.

Tassie was still walking swiftly along the avenue, and Charlotte was only ten yards behind her now. But when she turned off without warning into a side street, narrower and poorer, Charlotte was caught by surprise. She had been lost in her thoughts and was startled back to awareness with an unpleasant realization of how close she had been to losing Tassie, and continuing alone to God knew where.

This new street was also residential, but the houses were meaner, closer together; graciousness had yielded to necessity.

They had come to the end of the street, and Tassie was still walking rapidly, as if she knew precisely where she was going. They were now in a road which was little more than an alley, close-walled and grimy, with sagging houses propped against one another, dark threatening recesses into yards, and shadows like unknown stagnant pools. There was no one else in sight but a scrawny urchin with a huge cap a few yards ahead of Tassie, walking in the same direction. Charlotte shivered, although she was warm from hurrying and the night was mild. She dared not think how afraid she was, or she would lose her nerve and turn tail, as fast as flying feet could carry her, back to the broad, clean, familiar avenue.

But Tassie seemed to be without fear; her step was quick and light and her head was high. She knew where she was going and looked forward to getting there. There was no one in sight but the urchin, Tassie, and Charlotte herself, but God knew what lurked in the doorways. Where on earth could Tassie be going in this sour maze of tenements and grimy, pinchpenny shops? She could not possibly know anyone—could she?

Charlotte’s heart missed a beat and coldness rippled through her. Had George also wakened one night or, perhaps returning from Sybilla’s room, seen Tassie, and followed her? Was Charlotte doing exactly what he had done? Had George discovered her abominable secret—and died for it?

Incredibly her feet did not stop; some other part of her brain seemed to be governing them and they kept on quite automatically, hurrying almost soundlessly along the dank street. She was aware now of figures slumped in doorways, of movement in the black alleyways amid the heaps of refuse. Rats, or people? Both. It was in alleys like this that Pitt’s men had discovered the dismemhered parts of the girl less than a month ago.

Charlotte felt sick, but the thought would not be turned away. It was the figure tiptoeing up the stairs, the blood, and the terrible serenity.

How far were they from Cardington Crescent? How many times had they turned? Tassie was still ahead of her, only ten or twelve yards; she dared not allow the distance to become greater in case Tassie turned suddenly and Charlotte lost her. She was a slight figure, almost as thin as the urchin in front of her and the other ragged shadows that swam on the edge of her vision.

It was too late to go back. Wherever Tassie went she would have to wait for her; alone she would not know how to find her way out of this slum.

One large figure took shape, detaching itself from the bulging, irregular walls. A man with broad shoulders. But far from being afraid, Tassie went towards him with a little murmur of pleasure and lifted her arms, accepting his embrace as naturally as a sweet and familiar blessing. The kiss was intimate, as easy as people who love each other with unquestioning trust, but it was swift, and the next moment Tassie disappeared into the nearest doorway, and the man after her, leaving Charlotte alone in the dark, chipped, and slimy pavement. The urchin had seemingly vanished.

Now she was really frightened. She could feel the darkness coming closer, figures moving uneasily with shuffling feet, a slithering in the alleys, a settling of beams and dripping of water leaking from hidden drains. If she were robbed and killed here, not even Pitt would ever find her.

What was this place? It looked like an ordinary, mean house. What inside it drew Tassie here alone, and at midnight? She would have to wait here till she came out, then follow her again until—

There was a hand on her shoulder and her heart jumped so violently the shriek was forced out of her in a shrill yelp that choked off in inarticulate terror.

“Wot yer be doin’ ’ere, Missy?” a voice growled in her ear. Hot, rank-smelling breath. She tried to speak, but her throat was so tight the words died. The hands over her mouth were coarse and the skin had the acrid smell of dirt. “Well, Missy meddler?” The voice was so close the breath moved her hair. “Wot yer want ’ere, then? Come spyin’, ’ave yer? Come ter tell tales, ’ave yer? Goin’ a runnin’ back for Papa ter tell ’im all abaht it, are yer? I’ll give yer summin worf tellin’, then!” And he yanked her savagely, bending her back and taking her off balance.

She was still shivering with fear, but anger was mounting as well, and she jabbed her elbow back sharply and at the same time trod back with her heel, putting all her weight into it. It caught the man on the instep and he howled with pained outrage.

It was just about to descend into something far uglier, when a woman’s voice cut across them angrily.

“Stop it! Mr. Hodgekiss, leave her alone this minute!” A lantern shone high and bright, making Charlotte wince and close her eyes. The man spluttered and let her go, growling wordlessly in the back of his throat.