Death in the Devil's Acre Page 12

  She let out a sigh and smiled disarmingly. “What a relief it is to know someone who really does understand. So many people speak kindly, but they think only of a natural grief at losing a friend.”

  Mrs. Woolmer fidgeted, twisting her hands in her lap. She did not like the turn of this conversation, but could not think how to alter it without displaying marked discourtesy.

  “Quite.” Lady Ashworth agreed with a little nod, continuing May’s thought. “One imagines one knows people, and then something like this occurs! But what can one do? If one is introduced by respectable acquaintances, that is all anyone requires. My husband and I were astonished.” She took a deep breath. “Of course I do not know Sir Beau at all—”

  But May was not to be so easily trapped.

  “He appears to be extremely pleasant,” she replied without emotion. She forced Beau’s face from her mind— the laughter, the soft voice, memories of dancing, lights, music, whirling feet, his arms about her. “Sir Bertram always behaved himself impeccably in my company,” she finished levelly.

  “Of course!” Mrs. Woolmer said, a shade too quickly.

  “I’m sure.” Lady Ashworth brushed her fingers delicately over her skirt. “But if you will forgive me saying so, my dear, men have been known to behave very rashly indeed when they fall in love. And even brothers have learned to hate one another over a beautiful woman.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Woolmer’s hand flew to her mouth and stifled an exclamation in language far less than genteel.

  May felt distinctly uncomfortable. Of course she was aware that many men had desired her. Surely that was what the Season was for? But so far she had considered the emotions superficial, all a part of the exquisite charade where the winners retired with agreeable husbands and with futures assured both socially and financially. The losers retreated to consider next year’s tactics. May had always known her strengths and her weaknesses, and how best to deploy them. She had every intention of being a winner, and envy was to be expected—but not hatred, and certainly not the kind of passion that breeds murder.

  “I think you flatter me, Lady Ashworth,” she said carefully. “I have given no one cause for such feelings.” Perhaps it would be better to change the subject, turn Lady Ashworth’s curious eyes onto something even more shocking. “I do not have the amorous skill of many of the ladies with”—she gave a tiny smile—“shall we say ‘experience’? I am loath to repeat rumor, but it is so persistent that in all common sense I cannot believe it is entirely false. There are some ladies of perfectly good family who behave like women of pleasure. No doubt they have the art to inflame the sort of dreadful emotions you are speaking of.”

  It burst like a bombshell, as was intended.

  “Nonsense!” Mrs. Woolmer choked on her indrawn breath. “You cannot possibly know of such a thing! Women of pleasure indeed! I will thank you to hold your tongue.”

  Lady Ashworth’s head came up, her eyes wide. But surprisingly it was Mrs. Pitt who came to May’s rescue. “It is most distressing,” she agreed, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “But I also have heard of such things. And I have to admit that my source was irreproachable. It makes me wonder how ever to judge where to pursue acquaintances, and where one dare not! I am sure you must have had the same doubts as I. I feel guilty even for suspecting people who are probably as innocent as the day, and yet I would be appalled to find myself, through good nature and an excess of gullibility, in a situation from which I could not retreat with my reputation unblemished—not to think of things far worse!”

  Lady Ashworth seemed to be in the grip of some overpowering emotion. She coughed furiously and covered her face with her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Her skin was pink to the very roots of her hair. Fortunately, at that moment the maid returned with tea and other refreshments, and they were able to revive Lady Ashworth. Her face was flushed but she was apparently otherwise in control of herself.

  But Mrs. Pitt was quite right. One simply could not afford to associate with women who were even suspected of such behavior. May racked her thoughts to know which of her acquaintances might be involved. Several names came to mind, and she determined to avoid them on every possible occasion. Perhaps she should, in all kindness, warn Mrs. Pitt?

  “Are you acquainted with Lavinia Hawkesley?” she inquired.

  Lady Ashworth’s eyes widened. There was no need for indelicate explanations. May blandly mentioned a few other names, and then they discussed fashion and current romances for a pleasant half hour, all undershot with a frisson of scandal. Mrs. Woolmer tried to guide the conversation toward the Ashworths’ acquaintance with eligible young men, and met with no success whatsoever.

  At four o’clock, the parlormaid opened the door and asked if the ladies would receive Mr. Alan Ross, who had called to offer his family’s sympathies.

  Lady Ashworth jumped to her feet, seizing Mrs. Pitt by the hand. “Come, Charlotte, we really must not monopolize the whole afternoon.” She turned to May. “I fear we have enjoyed your company so much we have forgotten our manners. If you will permit us to take our leave before Mr. Ross arrives, we will not make him feel uncomfortable by appearing to avoid him.”

  Mrs. Woolmer was startled. “Of course, if—if that is what you wish. Marigold, have Mr. Ross wait in the morning room for a moment, if you please.”

  Marigold closed the door behind her.

  Lady Ashworth bent to May with a confidential whisper. “My sister and I were once acquainted with Mr. Ross’s family during a period of tragedy which must be most distressing to him. I think it would be a kindness, my dear, if you were not to mention our names to him. I’m sure you understand?”

  May did not understand at all, but she was perfectly capable of taking a hint. “Of course. You will merely be two ladies who have called by in friendship. I appreciate your sensitivity, and I hope I shall have the good fortune to meet you again in more fortunate circumstances.”

  “I am sure of it,” Lady Ashworth said confidently, with the slightest of nods.

  May understood; it was all she wished.

  Outside in the street, Charlotte turned on Emily. “What are you thinking of? Surely it would have been to our advantage to meet with Alan Ross again? Max may have used his old connections to find these women!”

  “I know that!” Emily exclaimed. “But not in there. He won’t be long—we can wait out here for him.”

  “It’s freezing! Why on earth should we stand around here? He’ll know we are forcing an acquaintance if—”

  “Oh, don’t be so silly. William!” She waved her hand at the coachman. “Find something wrong with one of the horses—keep yourself occupied until Mr. Ross comes out of the house.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” William obediently bent and ran his hand down the near horse’s leg, and began to examine it.

  Charlotte shivered as the wind cut through her coat. “Why on earth couldn’t we simply have stayed in there and met him?” she demanded, glaring at Emily.

  “I always thought General Balantyne was very fond of you.” Emily appeared to ignore the remark.

  Charlotte had liked to think so, too. The memory brought a pleasant glow, a tinge of excitement. She did not argue.

  “Christina moves in just the right circle to know the sort of women who might be used by Max,” Emily continued. “She could be of great assistance.”

  “Christina Ross wouldn’t assist us across the street if we were blind!” Charlotte remembered Callander Square vividly. “The most likely assistance she could give me would be into the nearest ditch!”

  “Which is why we must pursue the general instead,” Emily said impatiently. “If you conduct yourself properly, he will help you to anything you like! Now be quiet. Mr. Ross is coming out. I knew he wouldn’t be long.”

  As Alan Ross approached, Emily smiled dazzlingly at him.

  He smiled back and raised his hat a little uncertainly. Then his eyes moved to Charlotte and his face eased in recognition.

  “Mi
ss Ellison? How charming to see you again. I hope you are well. Do you have trouble with your carriage? May I take you somewhere?”

  “Thank you, I am sure it is nothing serious,” Charlotte answered quickly. “Do you recall Mr. Ross, Emily? My sister, Lady Ashworth—” She wanted to tell him delicately that she was Mrs. Pitt. During the Callander Square murders, she had found a position in the Balantyne house by pretending she was a single woman in need of respectable work. “Mr. Ross—”

  Emily cut in, offering her hand to Alan Ross. “Of course I remember Mr. Ross. Please give my best wishes to Mrs. Ross. I confess it is quite some time since I have seen her. One becomes so busy with people one is obliged by courtesy to visit that one misses those one is genuinely fond of. She is such an entertaining person. I look forward to meeting her again.”

  Emily detested Christina and always had. Her smile did not waver a fraction. “And Charlotte has spoken of her frequently. We really must call upon her. I hope she will forgive us for our neglect.”

  “I am sure she will be delighted to see you.” He gave the only possible answer he could.

  Emily smiled as if equally charmed by the prospect. “Then please tell her that Lady Ashworth and Miss Ellison will call upon her next Tuesday, if she receives upon that day?”

  “I am sure she will. But why do you not come to dine? That would be far pleasanter. It will be only a small gathering, but if Lord Ashworth is not engaged—?”

  “I am sure he is not.” Emily accepted with alacrity. She would make sure that George was not. Other engagements would have to be dispensed with.

  He bowed slightly. “Then I shall see that invitations are sent. If you are sure I can be of no assistance?” He looked at William, now standing to attention by the horse’s head.

  “I am sure we shall be perfectly all right,” Emily said.

  “Then I bid you good day, Lady Ashworth, Miss Ellison.” He met Charlotte’s eyes for a moment, smiled, then turned and walked back along the pavement to his own carriage.

  Emily accepted William’s assistance into the carriage, and Charlotte followed after her, landing in a bundle.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” she said furiously. “Why did you let him go on thinking I am Miss Ellison? I hardly need a job in Christina’s household!”

  Emily yanked her skirt free from where Charlotte was sitting on it. “We’ll hardly be in a position to discover much if they know you are married to a policeman!” she pointed out. “Let alone the very policeman who is investigating the murders. Added to which, it will do no harm for the general to see you as still unmarried.”

  “What are you—” Charlotte began, then stopped short. There was considerable good sense in what Emily was saying. People like Christina Balantyne did not dine with policemen’s wives! If they knew she and Emily were bent on inquiring into murder, they would never even get through the front door.

  After all, they had a certain moral duty to discover as much as they could—it was every person’s duty. And, in truth, they had proved unusually skilled in the past!

  “Yes,” she said meekly. “Yes, I suppose you are quite right, Emily.”

  If she and Emily were to investigate effectively, they must have all the knowledge available. But to get it from Pitt was no easy matter. So far, he had spoken of no further discovery. It seemed he was trudging day after day through the squalor of the Acre, pursuing a word here, a suggestion there. But if he was any nearer find- ing a connection between Max, Dr. Pinchin, and Bertie Astley, he had not told Charlotte of it.

  “Thomas?” she began softly.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. It was late; he was half asleep by the fire in the parlor. She had chosen her time with care, and tried to sound casual. “Have you learned anything more about Max?”

  “I know everything there is to know about Max,” he replied, sliding a little farther down in his chair, looking at her through his eyelashes. “Except who his clients were, who his women were, and who killed him.”

  “Oh.” She was not sure how to pursue it. “That means he kept no sort of record. Or else it was taken?”

  “He was killed in the street,” he pointed out. “Unless it was his house manager who did it, there would be no chance to look for papers. Anyway, according to all I can find out, there were none. He kept names in his head, and all business was strictly cash.”

  No records! “Then how could he blackmail anyone?” she asked curiously.

  “I don’t know that he did.” He moved his feet off the fender; it was getting too hot. “But he might have had knowledge enough to ruin anyone’s reputation. Proof is not necessary. Word of mouth in the right place, substantiated by a few names and places, would do excellently. Suspicion alone can destroy. But the motive could just as easily have been professional rivalry. He was taking other people’s business. Either way, it is none of your affair. This isn’t a case where an amateur can help.”

  She met his gaze and suddenly felt a great deal less sure of herself. “Oh, yes, of course,” she said. After all, she was not really investigating! It was only a matter of keeping her ears open for any odd piece of information that might prove relevant. “But it is only natural I should be interested, isn’t it?” she said reasonably.

  Charlotte was something less than honest over the dinner invitation to the Rosses’ on Tuesday. Pitt was working, as she had trusted he would be. She mentioned that they had been invited to dine with Emily and George, and would he mind very much if she went, even though he was unable to? She knew he would not refuse her. After all, he had not been able to take her anywhere himself, or even to offer her much companionship, since the case began. And so far as it went, what she said was true; she would be with Emily and George! Even if it was not in their home, as she allowed Pitt to presume.

  Emily lent her a gown, as usual, and Charlotte dressed for the occasion at Paragon Walk, with Emily’s maid to dress her hair. She felt not the least qualm about that, for the whole idea had been engineered by Emily’s connivance, with Alan Ross!

  The gown was of apricot silk, with the most delicate lace a shade or two deeper, and appeared to be quite new. In fact, it crossed her mind to wonder if Emily had obtained it for the purpose. It was a color Emily herself should never have worn, with her fair hair and clear blue eyes. The shade was ideal for a warmer complexion and darker, heavier hair with gleams of red in it.

  She felt a sudden gratitude for Emily’s generosity, both in providing the gown, which flattered her so much, and for doing it in such a discreet manner. She decided to say nothing, and thus let the gift reach the fullest measure. Instead she swept down the stairs from the spare dressing room like a duchess entering her own ballroom, and swirled to a grand curtsy in the hallway at Emily’s feet. The sense of excitement inside her was as vivid as the light on the chandeliers.

  “Your dress is perfect,” she said, rising with a little less grace than she had intended. “I feel fit to dazzle everyone and make Christina quite sickly with envy! Thank you very much.”

  Emily was in the palest aquamarine, with diamonds at her ears and throat sparkling like sunlight upon clear water. They were as different as could be, which of course had been the intention—although possibly Emily had not expected Charlotte to look quite so splendid. But if she hadn’t, she rapidly adjusted her thought, and smiled back with unclouded approval.

  “Now, just remember not to say anything too candid,” she warned. “Society adores mirrors to its face and its attire, but has no love whatsoever for a reflection of its morals or its soul. I shall be obliged if you bear that in mind before you express your opinions!”

  “Yes, Emily.” She did owe her something for the dress.

  Emily had obviously taken some care in forewarning George of the purpose of their visit. He had agreed to accompany them, and to refrain from enlightening their hosts about Charlotte’s marriage and thus her current social status, although Charlotte did not know if Emily had also told him the reason for this
!

  Christina Ross received them distinctly coolly. Obviously the invitation had come from her husband, and she had been obliged to go along with it, since it could hardly be withdrawn. “How kind of you to come, Lord Ashworth, Lady Ashworth,” she said, with a very small smile.

  George bowed and passed some civil remark, vaguely complimentary.

  “And Miss Ellison.” Christina’s eyes swept over Charlotte’s gown with slight surprise. She allowed it to show, as a delicate insult to what she considered to be Charlotte’s station, and therefore the unsuitability of the gown—let alone how she might have come by it! “I hope you are in good health?” There was a lift in her voice, which was wasted. Charlotte too obviously glowed with an abundance of well-being of every sort.

  Christina abandoned the inquiry without waiting for an answer, and indicated where they were welcome to seat themselves.

  George did not believe that they should interfere in the solving of the crimes, and he had in fact barely known Bertie Astley. But he was generally good-natured, as long as he was not unduly criticized or robbed of his habitual pleasures. Emily had proved an excellent wife. She was neither extravagant nor indiscreet, she rarely lost her temper, she never sulked or rebuffed him, and she was far too subtle in her dealings with him to need to nag.

  He was aware, in afterthought, of having changed one or two of his amusements—maybe even three or four—in order to please her. But it had proved less painful than he had anticipated, and one had to be prepared to make some adjustments. He therefore did not really object to humoring her with regard to cultivating Christina Ross, if she felt it was useful. Of course he knew quite well it was absolutely pointless, but if it entertained her, what matter? And he could see no reason why it should not be pleasant.