Paragon Walk Read online

  “And you should take a good deal closer look at Freddie Dilbridge’s party,” Afton went on. “Not only coachmen drink more than they can hold. He has some very strange guests. I don’t know how Grace puts up with it, except of course it is her place to obey him, and, good woman that she is, she abides by it. But, good God, do you know his daughter is keeping company with some Jew, and Freddie allows it, just because the man has money! I ask you, some money-grubbing little Jew, with Albertine Dilbridge!” He turned around sharply, his eyes narrowed. “Or perhaps you don’t understand that? Although even the lower classes don’t usually mix their blood with foreigners. To do business with them is one thing, even to have them in one’s house, when one must, but that is utterly different from permitting one of them to court one’s daughter.” He snorted and was obliged to blow his nose. He flinched in pain as the linen of his handkerchief rubbed the red flesh.

  “You had better start doing your job a little more effectively, Mr. Pitt. Everyone here is suffering appallingly. As if the heat and the Season were not enough! I loathe the Season, with its endless simpering young women dressed by their mothers and taught to parade like cattle at a fat stock show, young men gambling away their money, whoring around, and drinking till they cannot even remember which idiocy they were at the night before. Do you know I went to see Hallam Cayley at half past ten on the morning Fulbert disappeared, to inquire if he had seen him, and he was still insensible from the previous night? The man is only thirty-five, and he’s a dissipated wreck! It’s obscene!”

  He looked at Pitt without pleasure. “One thing to be said for your type, I suppose, at least you are too busy to become drunk, and you cannot afford it.”

  Pitt straightened up and put his hands into his pockets to hide the clenching of his fists. He had seen every kind of moral and spiritual wreck thrown up with the flotsam of London’s underworld, but nothing that offended him, as did Afton Nash, without stirring up a modicum of pity. There must be some deep and dreadful scar on this man he did not even guess.

  “Does Mr. Cayley drink a great deal, sir?” he asked with soft voice.

  “How the devil should I know?” Afton snapped. “I do not frequent that sort of place. I know he was drunk the other morning when I called, and he behaves like a man who has indulged himself beyond the point his stomach can bear.” He jerked his head up to look at Pitt again. “But look at the Frenchman. There is something sly and over intimate about him. God only knows what foreign aberrations he has! There is no one in his house but his own servants. He could be doing anything in there. Women are incredibly foolish. For God’s sake, protect us from this—this obscenity!”

  Six

  EMILY DID NOT mention Fulbert’s disappearance to Charlotte, and she heard of it from Pitt. There was nothing she could do about it so late in the evening, or indeed the following day. Since Jemima was grizzly with cutting teeth, Charlotte did not feel it fair to ask Mrs. Smith to look after her. However, by midafternoon she was so distracted by Jemima’s crying that she slipped over the street to ask Mrs. Smith if she had any remedy for it, or at least something to ease the pain sufficiently for the child to rest.

  Mrs. Smith clucked with disapproval at Charlotte and took herself off into the kitchen. A moment later she came back with a bottle of clear liquid.

  “You put that on ’er gums with a piece of cotton, an’ it’ll soothe ’er in no time, you just see.”

  Charlotte thanked her for it profusely. She did not ask what was in the mixture, feeling she would probably prefer not to know, as long as it was not gin, which she had heard some women gave their babies when they could bear the crying no longer. Still, she imagined she would recognize the smell of that.

  “And ’ow’s your poor sister?” Mrs. Smith asked, glad of a few moments’ company and wanting to keep it.

  Charlotte seized the chance to prepare the ground to visit Emily again.

  “Not very well,” she said quickly. “I’m afraid the brother of a friend has disappeared quite without trace, and it is all very distressing.”

  “Oooh!” Mrs. Smith was entranced. “’Ow dreadful! Ain’t that extraordinary, wherever can ’e ’ave gorn?”

  “Nobody knows.” Charlotte sensed that she had won already. “But tomorrow, if you will be kind enough to look after Jemima, and I hardly like to ask you when—”

  “Never you mind!” Mrs. Smith said instantly. “I’ll look after ’er, don’t you worry. She’ll ’ave them teeth cut in a week or two, and poor little thing’ll feel the world better. You just go and see to your sister, love. Find out what ’appened!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “’Course, I’m sure!”

  Charlotte gave her a dazzling smile, and accepted.

  Actually she was going as much for curiosity as in any belief that she could help Emily. But she might help Pitt, and perhaps that was what was in her heart. After all, Fulbert’s disappearance could hardly make anything worse for George. And she had a great desire to speak again with Aunt Vespasia. As Vespasia frequently pointed out, not always at happy moments, she had known most of the people in the Walk since childhood and had a prodigious memory. So often, small clues, threads from the past, could point to something in the present that would otherwise be overlooked.

  She arrived at Emily’s house at the traditional time for afternoon tea and was shown in by the maid, who recognized her now and ushered her in.

  Emily already had Phoebe Nash and Grace Dilbridge with her, and Aunt Vespasia joined them from the garden almost at the same time as Charlotte came in at the other door. The usual polite greetings were exchanged. Emily told the maid she might bring in the tea, and a few minutes later it arrived: the silver service and bone china cups and saucers, minute cucumber sandwiches, little fruit tarts, and sponge cakes spread with fine sugar and whipped cream. Emily poured the tea, and the maid waited to hand it around.

  “I don’t know what the police are doing,” Grace Dilbridge said critically. “They don’t seem to have found the slightest trace of poor Fulbert.”

  Charlotte had to remind herself that, of course, Grace had no idea that the police in question included Charlotte’s husband. The notion of having a social connection with the police was unthinkable. She saw a bright spot of color in Emily’s cheek, and surprisingly it was Emily who came to their defense.

  “If he does not wish to be found, it would be extremely difficult even to know where to begin,” she pointed out. “I would have no idea where to start. Would you?”

  “Of course not.” Grace was put out by the question. “But then I am not a policeman.”

  Vespasia’s magnificent face was perfectly calm except for a faint surprise, but her eye flickered over Charlotte for an instant before fixing on Grace.

  “Are you suggesting, my dear, that the police are more intelligent than we are?” she inquired.

  Grace was momentarily floored. It was certainly not what she had intended, and yet somehow she seemed to have said it. She took refuge in a sip of tea and then a nibble at a cucumber sandwich. A look of confusion passed over her face, followed by polite determination.

  “But everyone is so appallingly upset,” Phoebe murmured to fill the gap. “I know I miss poor Fanny still, and the whole household seems to be at sixes and sevens. I jump every time I hear a strange sound. I simply cannot help myself.”

  Charlotte had wanted to see Aunt Vespasia alone in order to put some questions to her frankly; there would be no point at all in trying to be devious. But she would have to wait until tea was properly accomplished and the visitors excused themselves. She took one of the cucumber sandwiches and bit into it. It was unpleasant, faintly sweet, as if the cucumber were bad, and yet is was crisp enough. She looked at Emily.

  Emily had one also. She stared at Charlotte, consternation on her face.

  “Oh dear!”

  “I think you had better have a word with your cook,” Vespasia suggested, putting down one of the cakes. She reached for the bell herself.
They waited until the maid came and was duly sent to fetch the cook.

  When the cook came, she was a buxom woman with a good color, who normally might well have been handsome enough, but today looked hot and untidy, although it was long before time for the preparation of dinner.

  “Are you feeling unwell, Mrs. Lowndes?” Emily began carefully. “You have put sugar in the sandwiches.”

  “And, I fear, salt on the cakes,” Vespasia touched one delicately with her finger.

  “If you are,” Emily continued, “perhaps you would prefer to take to your bed for a while. One of the girls can prepare some vegetables, and I am sure there is a cold ham or chicken we could eat. I cannot have dinner turning out like this.”

  Mrs. Lowndes stared at the cake stand in dismay, then let out a long wail of anguish, rising at the end. Phoebe looked alarmed.

  “It’s awful!” Mrs. Lowndes moaned. “You can’t know, m’lady, ’ow awful it is down there, knowing as there’s a maniac loose in the Walk. An’ decent, God-fearin’ people bein’ a murdered one by one. Only the good Lord knows as who’ll be next! The scullery maid’s fainted twice today already, and me kitchen maid’s threatening to leave if ’e ain’t found soon. Always been in decent employment, all of us! Never ’ad anything like this in all our lives! We won’t never be the same again, none of us! Aoow—eee!” she wailed, even more shrilly, and tore a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. Her voice rose higher and louder, and the tears streamed down her face.

  Everyone looked stupefied. Emily was aghast. She had no idea at all what to do with this enormous woman rapidly nearing the verge of complete hysteria. For once even Aunt Vespasia seemed at a loss.

  “Aowoo!” Mrs. Lowndes howled. “Ooooh!” She began to shake violently and threatened to collapse on the carpet.

  Charlotte stood up and seized the vase of flowers from the sideboard. She took the blooms out with her left hand and felt a satisfactory weight remaining. With all her strength she hurled the water into the cook’s face.

  “Be quiet!” she said firmly.

  The howl ceased in mid-breath. There was total silence.

  “Now control yourself!” Charlotte went on. “Of course, it is unpleasant. Do you not think we all feel distressed? But it is up to us to behave with dignity. You must set an example to the younger women. If you lose control of yourself, what on earth can we expect of the maids? A cook is not merely someone who knows how to mix a sauce, Mrs. Lowndes. She is head of the kitchen; she is there to keep order and to see that everyone conducts themselves as they ought. I’m surprised at you!”

  The cook stared at her. The color brightened in her face, and slowly she drew herself up to her full height, throwing her shoulders back.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good,” Charlotte said stiffly. “Now Lady Ashworth will look to you to stop any silly chatter among the girls. If you keep your head and behave with the dignity appropriate to the senior member of the female staff, then they will all take courage and follow your example.”

  Mrs. Lowndes lifted her chin a little and her bosom swelled, remembering her own importance.

  “Yes, m’lady. I’ll take it kindly, m’lady,” she looked at Emily, “if you’d overlook my momentary weakness, and not mention it in front of the other servants, ma’am?”

  “Of course not, Mrs. Lowndes,” Emily said quickly, taking Charlotte’s cue. “Quite understandable. It’s a heavy burden of responsibility you carry for so many girls. The less said, the better, I think. Perhaps you would have the parlormaid bring us some fresh cakes and sandwiches?”

  “Yes, m’lady, most certainly.” With great relief she picked up the two plates and sailed out, dripping with water, and ignoring Charlotte, still standing with the flowers in one hand and the empty vase in the other.

  After Phoebe and Grace had gone, Emily immediately took herself to the kitchen, against Vespasia’s advice, to make sure that Charlotte’s counsel had been taken, and dinner would not be another disaster. Charlotte turned to Vespasia. There was no time for subtlety, even were she capable of it.

  “It seems even the servants are in a turmoil over Mr. Nash’s disappearance,” she said directly. “Do you think he has run away?”

  Vespasia’s eyebrows rose in slight surprise.

  “No, my dear, I do not for a moment think so. I imagine that his tongue has at last earned him the fate he has so long sought by it.”

  “You mean someone has murdered him?” Of course it was what she had expected, but to hear it spoken so plainly by someone other than Pitt was still startling.

  “I should think so.” Vespasia hesitated. “Except that I have no idea what they have done with his body.” Her nostrils flared. “A peculiarly unpleasant thing to think of, but ignoring it will not change it. I suppose they took him out in a hansom and left him somewhere, perhaps the river.”

  “In that case, we’ll never find him.” It was an admission of defeat. With no body, there was no proof of murder. “But that is not the most important thing, what matters is who!”

  “Ah,” Vespasia said softly, looking at Charlotte. “Indeed, who? Naturally I have given the subject a great deal of consideration. In fact I have been able to think of little else, although I have avoided speaking of it in front of Emily.”

  Charlotte leaned forward. She was not sure how to express herself without seeming forward, even callous, and yet she must. Delicacy was of no service now. “You have known these people most of their lives. You. must know things about them the police could never discover, or understand if they did.” It was not intended as flattery, simply fact. They needed Vespasia’s help—Pitt needed it. “You must have opinions! Fulbert used to say fearful things about people. He said to me once that they were all whited sepulchers. I don’t doubt most of it was for effect, but judging from their reactions, there was a germ of truth!”

  Vespasia smiled, and there was dry, faraway humor and regret in her face, an infinity of memories.

  “My dear girl, everyone has secrets, unless they have lived no life at all. And even they, poor souls, imagine they have. It is almost an admission of defeat not to have a secret of some kind.”

  “Phoebe?”

  “Hardly one to kill over,” Vespasia shook her head slowly. “The poor soul is losing her hair. She wears a wig.”

  Charlotte recalled Phoebe at the funeral, her hair sliding one way and her hat the other. How could she feel so sharply sorry for her and at the same time want to laugh? It was so unimportant, and yet it would be painful to Phoebe. Unconsciously she touched her own hair, thick and shining. It was her best feature. Perhaps if she were losing it, it would matter enormously. She too would feel insecure, belittled, somehow naked. The laughter vanished.

  “Oh,” there was pity in the word, and Vespasia was looking at her with appreciation. “But as you say,” Charlotte collected herself and went on, “hardly a matter to murder over, even if she were capable of it.”

  “She wouldn’t be,” Vespasia agreed. “She is far too silly to do anything so big so successfully.”

  “I was thinking of the purely physical side,” Charlotte replied. “She couldn’t manage that, even if she’d a mind to.”

  “Oh, Phoebe is stronger than she looks,” Vespasia sat back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling in recollection. “She could murder him all right, with perhaps a knife, if she had lured him somewhere she could simply leave him. But she has not the nerve to carry it off afterward. I remember when she was a girl, about fourteen or fifteen, she took her elder sister’s lace petticoat and pantaloons and cut them down to fit herself. She was as cool as you like doing it, but then, when she came to wear them, she was so stricken with fear, she wore her own on top in case anything should catch her skirt and the better ones be seen. As a result she looked ten pounds heavier and not in the least attractive. No, Phoebe might do it, but she has not the endurance to carry it off.”

  Charlotte was fascinated. How little one guessed of people when one saw them on
ly in the single dimension of a few days or weeks; how they lacked all the substance of the past. They seemed almost flat, like cardboard, with all the depth gone.

  “What other secrets are there?” she asked. “What else did Fulbert know?”

  Vespasia sat up and opened her eyes wide.

  “My dear child, I wouldn’t begin to guess. He was unbearably nosy. His main preoccupation in life was to acquire uncharitable information about others. If at last he found something too big for him, I cannot but say he richly deserved it.”

  “But what else?” Charlotte was not going to give up so easily. “Who else? Do you think he knew who killed Fanny, and that was it?”

  “Ah!” Vespasia breathed out slowly. “That, of course, is the real question. And I’m afraid I have no idea. Naturally I have been over and over everything I know. To tell the truth, I expected you to ask me.” She looked at Charlotte hard. Her old eyes were very clear, very clever. “And I would warn you, my girl, to keep your tongue a little stiller than you have done so far. If indeed Fulbert did know who killed Fanny, it served him ill. At least one of the secrets in Paragon Walk is a very dangerous matter indeed. I don’t know which of them brought Fulbert Nash to his death, so leave them all alone!”

  Charlotte felt the cold ripple through her, as if someone had opened an outside door on a winter day. She had not thought of personal danger before. All her anxieties had been for Emily, that she might learn of weakness, selfishness in George. She had not feared violence, not even to Emily, let alone to herself. But, if there were a secret so dreadful in Paragon Walk that Fulbert had lost his life merely because he knew it, then to betray curiosity at all would be dangerous, and knowledge itself would be fatal. Surely the only secret like that must be the identity of the rapist. He had killed Fanny to protect that. There couldn’t be two murderers in the Walk—could there?