Murder on the Serpentine Read online

  If Pitt was worried about this case, then it mattered very much. Behind it was someone important, probably someone in society, or he would not have gone to the party attended by Lady Felicia Whyte. His brush with Kendrick there was significant, it had to be, or Pitt would have walked away from it.

  But there was nothing she could do, because he could not tell her! Why on earth was she spending her day on small chores, like cleaning the pantry, as she was doing now, when Minnie Maude could have done them very well? Minnie Maude had replaced Gracie when Gracie had at last married Tellman and started a family of her own. Apart from adopting a stray dog and, to begin with, hiding him in the cellar, Minnie Maude was an excellent maid, and Charlotte had already grown fond of her. The dog, Uffie, took more time to get used to. Once discovered, he had been allowed upstairs, and now he had practically taken up residence in the kitchen and was thoroughly at home. Even Pitt agreed that he was here for life, and often stopped to have a word with him and stroke him and admire his soft coat. He had no idea Charlotte did exactly the same. Sometimes she actually sat with him on her knees. He settled his warm little body immediately, and it was comforting.

  But Charlotte longed for the days when she had been able to give Pitt more practical help. They were not so long ago. Even when Pitt first moved to Special Branch she had been involved. When Narraway was running for his life, Charlotte had gone with him to Ireland and played a major part in solving the case. Pitt had been in France, chasing and assessing a fugitive who had fled London, leaving a man lying in the street with his throat cut.

  It felt like a long time that she had been kept out of cases. It might be partly to protect her, but she thought it was mainly because Pitt had been promoted beyond what he was sure he could handle. He was keeping rules he would not have been so bound by before. In the past there had always been someone else as a final arbiter. When he was in the police it was assistant commissioners, and in Special Branch it had been Narraway. Now there was no one.

  She was afraid for him. He had never had such enormous weight of responsibility before. It would take a great deal, many successes, to become used to it, if he ever did. He was a man who seldom took anything for granted. He had been very well educated in terms of knowledge, but not when it came to the gentlemanly grace and manners that were a birthright. And he would never have the natural arrogance of being born to lead.

  She ached to be able to protect him, and knew even before the question formed in her mind that there was no way she could.

  And she was also lonely. She had seen that so clearly in Emily, just a little while ago, when she believed Jack no longer found her interesting. The same fears stalked Charlotte herself now. Had she become predictable, like a favorite comfortable piece of furniture, eventually completely taken for granted, just part of the room where you feel at home? When do you look at it and suddenly see how shabby it has become?

  She kept up an appearance of calm contentment when Daniel and Jemima came home in the mid-afternoon, and even through dinner. But when the children were gone about their own various interests for the evening, she sat in the parlor with the curtains drawn back and the French doors open onto the garden. She remembered the children playing in it when they were younger: Pitt teaching Daniel how to catch a ball; Jemima at about three, bent over next to Pitt pulling weeds, thrilled because she was helping him. Charlotte had stood inside watching, aching with love. The light breeze ruffled the leaves on the poplars and there was a sweet smell of roses drifting inside.

  All was at peace.

  Pitt was in the armchair opposite her. His eyes were closed as if he were asleep, but she knew from the tension in him that he was not.

  “How was your luncheon?” she asked suddenly.

  He opened his eyes. “Duck pâté and a rack of lamb,” he replied. “It was excellent.”

  She looked for laughter or slight mockery in his expression, and saw none. Was that his way of telling her not to ask? Was she expected to interpret it and obey? Did she risk creating a stupid quarrel if she was tactless enough to pursue it? She was being childish, and yet the sense of exclusion was as sharp as a physical pain.

  “Who did you dine with?” The minute the words had escaped her she regretted it. But adding something now might only make it worse. She had nothing to say herself. She had been nowhere and met no one. Was she turning into the kind of boring woman she despised, who could talk about nothing but gossip?

  “Somerset Carlisle,” he answered. “I thought I said so?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, it was Carlisle.”

  “How is he?” This was absurd. Carlisle would not have asked Pitt at a couple of hours’ notice except for something he believed of intense importance. She remembered how closely he had been involved before, and it had been hard to say on which side of the law. What he believed was morally right, always, but not everyone would agree with him. “He is involved in your case.” She made it a statement. When he did not answer she became much more afraid.

  “Thomas! Be careful! He’s a complete…” She did not know how to finish.

  Pitt’s eyebrows rose sharply. “Isn’t that why you like him, because he’s an ‘outsider,’ to use the colloquial term? Unpredictable, outrageous, but always brave.”

  “Is that what you think I like?” She was surprised.

  “I think you have a natural affinity.” For the first time he relaxed a little and smiled.

  “I’m not as extreme as he is,” she protested. “Not at all!”

  “You have been,” he pointed out. “And I don’t have any doubt that you will be again, if you think the occasion warrants it.”

  With both pleasure and pain she remembered some of the cases she had helped with in the past. There had been tragedy, danger, intense pity, but always a sense of fighting side by side, of sharing passionately in something that mattered.

  “I will,” she agreed fervently. “I don’t have to step sideways out of life just because I’m married. That isn’t the end of everything. It’s supposed to be the beginning.”

  He looked at her very steadily, and she was carried in memory back to when they had first met, and he thought her so protected that she had no understanding of what life was like for most people. She had never wondered where the next meal was coming from, or if there was any coal for a fire, if she would keep the job that gave her a few pennies or lose it. She never had to make do and mend. Her father had both wealth and position.

  And none of it protected Charlotte’s family from having their eldest daughter murdered. At that terrible time he had seen her courage and strength of will. At least he had thought her capable then. And she was willing to learn. They had taught each other.

  “We’re well past the beginning now,” he said ruefully. “Jemima is eighteen already.”

  She knew that—very well! She now had a daughter who was no longer a child but a young woman looking toward marriage herself. It made her feel suddenly old, as if ten years had passed while her attention was somewhere else. She didn’t feel anything like it, but she was over forty. Not exactly a romantic image. What did Pitt see when he looked at her?

  “You’re right,” she said a little sharply. “I do like Somerset Carlisle. He has passion, courage, and honor, and is never afraid to do what he believes is right, whether anyone else agrees with him or not!”

  “I think you would find it a little unnerving to live with,” Pitt observed.

  “I’ve never thought of living with him.” She looked up and blinked back a sudden stinging of tears. “Or did you mean that I am unnerving to live with? Or I was, when I did anything unpredictable?”

  Now the conversation was out of control, and she had not meant it to be this way at all. She wanted to help, not make everything worse. What could she say that would mend it?

  “Is he helping you…with the case you spoke of?”

  “I think that is his intention,” he said slowly.

  She looked at him, sitting back in
his chair. He looked so tired, and worried. The last thing he needed was a wife who needed to be told that she was still beautiful, at least to him, and that she could help, be at the heart of things, not out on the edge.

  She made a guess, based on what she had heard at the party with Emily.

  “Was Sir John Halberd murdered?” He froze, his eyes wide. She knew she was right. “Oh dear,” she said softly. “What a mess.”

  He stood up and she rose also, automatically. He was half a foot taller than her, although she was tall for a woman.

  “There is a great deal of speculation,” he said gravely. “Most of it unkind, and of the sort I imagine you can guess. You will not add to it. Do you understand?”

  “That’s unfair!” she said angrily; it was better than showing her hurt. “I have never gossiped like that, and never repeated gossip except to you when I thought it could be helpful.”

  He sighed. “I know that. But Halberd was a man who moved in the highest society—the very highest—and he knew a great deal about a lot of people. Whoever killed him will not be squeamish about killing again, if they think anyone is a danger to them. And that could include you.”

  “I’m in less danger than you are!” Now she was afraid for him not only professionally but personally. She forgot about her own feeling of being shut out. She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest, gently. “Narraway and Aunt Vespasia are not here to help, Thomas. I’m going to, whether you want me to or not. I shall be very careful indeed. I do know how to be careful, you know.”

  “Do you?” he said skeptically. “This person is very dangerous, Charlotte. He or she killed someone very clever, who knew he was in danger.”

  “What on earth was Sir John doing alone at night in a rowing boat on the Serpentine?” she said quickly. “Do you know the answer to that already?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t expect to be attacked. He was meeting someone else. Are there two people involved?”

  “I don’t know. Possibly. Sir John knew a lot of things about a great many people. Charlotte, please! I can’t afford to spend my time worrying about whether you are safe or not.”

  “I will be perfectly safe. I will do nothing but watch and listen. And you can’t afford not to solve this case, can you?” It was a hard thing to say, but as soon as she met his eyes, she knew that it was the truth. “I’m not asking you to tell me anything,” she went on. “I already know that Alan Kendrick is involved—”

  “No, you don’t!” he retorted. “You don’t know—”

  “Oh, Thomas. Please! I was with you at Lord Harborough’s party. You would never have stood there politely talking to Kendrick if you didn’t have a reason to. By the way, did you know that Delia Kendrick was married before she met him? I don’t know to whom, but he was a Scot, I know that. And apparently she wasn’t Kendrick’s first choice either. He courted the Duchess of Lansdowne’s daughter, and the duchess declined him as not good enough for her family.”

  Pitt winced. “Did you ask someone this?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. Give me a little credit for brains.”

  “She told you?” he asked incredulously.

  “Of course not! Someone else did. I just listened. Delia Kendrick is the sort of woman people gossip about.”

  “Is there another sort?”

  “Of course there is. Principally the sort that never does anything that is worth retelling.” She thought she was one of those herself, but it sounded so self-pitying to say so. “You only talk about people you envy,” she added.

  “Who envies Delia Kendrick?”

  “Felicia Whyte, for one.”

  He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Because they are of a similar age, and Delia looks ten years younger, at least,” she said with a wry smile. “Can’t you see that?”

  “I never thought of it.”

  “Oh, Thomas! Whether you want to accept help or not, you need to!” She turned away before he could remonstrate with her. She was going to help—for her own sake, yes, but mostly for his. “I’ll be discreet,” she added.

  He did not reply to that.

  —

  SHE WAS AT LEAST fairly discreet. She went to see Emily again, this time asking in advance what would be a convenient time. Emily replied immediately that afternoon tea would be excellent. Thus at about four o’clock they were together in a small sitting room that looked onto the garden. They ate cucumber sandwiches and very small chocolate éclairs stuffed with cream.

  The elegant pewter teapot was piping hot. It would be refreshed at regular intervals with more boiling water.

  Emily did not waste time in niceties. “Have you learned anything more?” she asked. “You have! I can see that you are even more worried. What is it?”

  “Sir John Halberd’s death.” Charlotte was finding it difficult to tell Emily what she needed to know, keep certain facts discreet yet not so discreet that Emily would prompt her to say or do anything that would give away her knowledge. It could forewarn some guilty person, or even put Emily herself in danger.

  “I assumed as much, didn’t you?” Emily looked at her more closely now. “And what else? It matters to you a lot, I can see that.”

  “I know you can’t do a job like Thomas’s without making enemies, but all the same—” Charlotte began.

  “You can’t do anything much at all without making enemies,” Emily cut across her. “You didn’t just discover that.” She put out a hand and touched Charlotte gently. “What is it really? You were always the one to be disastrously frank, and now you’re going around in circles. If you’re upset because Thomas doesn’t tell you about his cases anymore, you shouldn’t be. You’d have no respect for him if he told you things he shouldn’t.”

  “I know,” Charlotte said hastily. “And no, of course I don’t want him to break anybody’s trust. But how can I help if I don’t know what it is about? Emily, it’s terribly serious. Sir John knew all kinds of things about lots of people.”

  “Blackmail?” Emily asked.

  “Good heavens! I hope not. He was…” She stopped. She had no idea what he was. Idealism was not going to be of any assistance to Thomas, and she was surely old enough not to be so unworldly.

  “Oh, Charlotte!” Emily shook her head, a look of exasperation on her face. “You’ve been at home too long. You’ve forgotten what people are really like. You have been too comfortable, too safe, for years. Your common sense is in hibernation. Of course it could be blackmail, or the fear of it.”

  “Thomas knows an awful lot of things. It’s part of his job to know. Victor Narraway knew even more.” She had forgotten for a moment how much Emily knew about the treason at Lisson Grove, and Charlotte’s travels to Ireland with Narraway, when Pitt’s life was in danger in France—or, to be more honest, if Emily had known that Narraway had once been in love with Charlotte, or at least thought he was.

  Emily’s expression did not offer any answer. “Of course Narraway knew lots of things,” she said impatiently. “And maybe Halberd wouldn’t stoop to blackmailing anyone. But does everybody else know that? What on earth was he doing on the Serpentine at night anyway? Obviously something secret. Perhaps he tried blackmailing the wrong person? Is it someone Thomas needs to protect, do you suppose?”

  Charlotte had wondered the same thing. “It could be. It would have to be a very bad secret indeed.”

  “There are very many bad secrets,” Emily reminded her. “I could think of half a dozen quite easily.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be something everyone was gossiping about already,” Charlotte responded. “What could be bad enough to kill over? Not an affair. Half the aristocracy is sleeping with people they aren’t married to. One looks the other way. I haven’t been so far out of society that I’ve forgotten that.”

  “If your son and heir to your title and lands is not your husband’s, that will cause a little ill feeling,” Emily answered. “But that’s not what I had in mind. Peopl
e care about money, or being made to look stupid in front of others. We all have something we care about; some possession, or reputation or appearance. Especially in society, you are what people believe you are, at least for the most part. No one wants to be thought a cheat, or a coward. No one wants people to know if someone jilted her, or she made a fool of herself with a man who found her boring, or ugly.”

  “But to kill rather than be blackmailed over such a thing?” Charlotte said skeptically, taking another chocolate éclair.

  “No, probably not to begin with,” Emily answered thoughtfully, taking one herself. “But maybe he tried too often. Or blackmailed somebody over a small thing, and they had something much larger to hide. Do you think?”

  Charlotte considered for several moments. “Perhaps. But it sounds like an ordinary domestic murder, not something over which to call in Special Branch. There are all sorts of sad and grubby things that happen, sometimes to people you would least expect. But it’s still not a government concern.”

  Emily raised her eyes, then looked back at Charlotte with exaggerated patience. “You have been out of society for far too long. You are beginning to become…”

  “Ordinary?” Charlotte suggested. “Perhaps you are too considerate to say ‘boring’?”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Emily stared at her, but instead of derision in her eyes there was a sudden softness.

  Charlotte was afraid to ask. She felt terribly vulnerable. Emily was her younger sister, and Charlotte had always been the elder, the taller, the leader in many ways. Emily had the title and the money, but Charlotte had never envied her those. Charlotte had the emotional security of being with a man who loved her, and she had the adventures as well. She had the sense of purpose because she was involved in helping him in things that mattered, that touched on the highest joys and the deepest tragedies in life. At least it had been that way.

  Emily had been through her crisis—feeling left behind, becoming an unnecessary appendage—and she had found herself a purpose again. Now it was Charlotte, passionate, indomitable Charlotte, who felt out of step and more ornament than of use.