Callander Square Page 3

  “I don’t want to find out who it was,” Charlotte said impatiently. “But if they were born dead, as seems well possible, perhaps you might be able to find her another position, if she were dismissed—”

  Emily stared at her, thoughts flashing in her face almost as transparently as they crossed her mind.

  Charlotte waited.

  “I know someone who lives in Callander Square,” she said at last. “At least George does—Brandy Balantyne. His father is a general, or something. I’m sure they live in Callander Square. He has a sister, Christina. I shall have George introduce us; it can be arranged, with a little thought. Then I shall call on her,” her voice began to rise with excitement. There was a faint color in her cheeks and a set of determination about her head. “We shall discover the real truth. I can learn things the police never could, because I move in the right circles. They will speak to me. And you can speak to the servants; oh, the higher-up ones, of course—cook and governess, and the like. You won’t tell them you are a policeman’s wife, naturally. We shall begin immediately. As soon as George returns home I shall speak to him and he will arrange it!”

  “Emily—”

  “What? I thought you wanted my help. We cannot possibly know what is best to do if we do not know the truth. It is always best to know the truth, whether you then decide to dismiss it or to conceal it, or even to forget about it entirely. But if we do not know the truth to begin with, we can make the most unfortunate mistakes.”

  Charlotte looked at Emily’s dancing eyes and every shred of common sense in her told her to refuse instantly.

  “We shall have to be very discreet.” Common sense suffered a quick defeat.

  “Of course!” Emily was withering. “My dear Charlotte, I could not possibly have survived in society for two whole years if I had not learned to say everything but what I actually mean. I am the soul of discretion. We shall begin right away. Go home and discover whatever you can. I don’t imagine you can be discreet, you never could; but at least don’t volunteer our plans. Mr. Pitt may not approve.”

  That was an understatement of magnificence. Nevertheless, Charlotte stood up with every intention of obeying, a tingle of fear inside her, and a thin quiver of Emily’s excitement.

  TWO

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Pitt went back to Callander Square, hoping to interview the servants in the last two houses, but it was not until the early afternoon that they returned from their long weekends in the country. Consequently it was nearly three o’clock when he was shown by the Campbells’ butler into the back parlor and, one by one, saw the rest of the servants. Of course they were expecting his questions—the news must have been virtually waiting for them on the doorstep in the shape of scullery maid, tweeny, or bootboy bursting with the events and their own rich interpretations of them.

  Pitt learned nothing new, and he was ready to leave when he met the mistress of the house. The Honorable Garson Campbell was a younger son of a family of wealth and position, and he had maintained a lifestyle appropriate to it. Mariah Campbell was a pleasant looking woman in her late thirties, with broad, good-humored face and fine, hazel eyes. She had been busy unpacking and organizing her family, which, she explained hastily, comprised a son, Albert, and two daughters, Victoria and Mary. She showed considerable distress on hearing of the purpose of his questions. Apparently the gossip had not reached her, and she begged that he would be discreet enough that the children might not come to hear of it.

  “I assure you, ma’am, I should not dream of introducing such a subject to a child,” he said honestly, although he forbore to say that if some child should mention the matter to him, he would not be averse to listening. He had usually found children much less affected by death than adults. And it was a rare child indeed that was not inveterately inquisitive, and would have extracted from the servants every last detail that was to be had, or even invented and embroidered upon.

  “Thank you,” she said courteously. “Children can be—hurt,” she was looking out of the window, “and frightened. There is so much that is ugly. The least we can do is protect them from it as long as we are able.”

  Pitt was of a totally different opinion. He believed that the longer you hid from the truth the less able you were to cope with it when it finally broke through all the barriers, like a dammed river, and carried away the careful structure of your life with it. He opened his mouth to argue, to say that a little at a time bred some tolerance to pain, a balance; but remembered his place. Policemen did not give advice in the upbringing of children to ladies who lived in Callander Square. In fact, policemen did not philosophize at all.

  “I’m afraid, ma’am, that they may well hear it from the servants,” he said gently.

  She frowned at him.

  “I shall forewarn the servants,” she answered. “Any servant who mentions such a thing will lose his or her position.”

  Pitt spared a thought for the unwitting maid who in a careless, garrulous moment might yield to childish insistence, or even petty blackmail, and thus lose home and job at one blow. Childhood would have given her no such protection from the unpleasant realities of life.

  “Naturally,” Pitt agreed sadly. “But there are other servants in the square, ma’am; and other children.”

  Instead of the anger he had expected, she merely looked suddenly tired.

  “Of course, Mr.—Pitt, did you say? And children will tell each other such gruesome stories. Still, I’m sure you will not frighten anyone unnecessarily. Do you have children of your own?”

  “Not yet, ma’am. My wife is expecting our first.” He said it with a ridiculous sense of pride and waited for her approval.

  “I hope everything goes well with her.” There was no light in her face. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  He was at a loss, deflated.

  “No, thank you. I shall almost certainly have to return; it may take us a long time to solve it, if we ever do. But that is all for today.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Jenkins will show you to the door.”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” He bowed very slightly and went out to the waiting butler and the front door into the leafy square.

  The Doran house was utterly different from the other houses in the square. It was unbelievably cluttered with photographs, embroidery, flowers dried, cased in glass, pressed, growing in pots, and even some fresh and arranged in painted vases. There were also at least three birds in cages, all hung with fringes and bells.

  The door was opened by a middle-aged parlormaid. This one was an exception to the generality: by no twist of the imagination could she have been chosen for her looks; except that when she opened her mouth her teeth were perfect, and her voice was as rich and smooth as Devon cream.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” she said calmly, with a faint southwestern distortion of the vowels. “Miss Laetitia and Miss Georgiana are taking tea. No doubt you will be wanting to speak to them first, as a matter of course.” She did not seem to require an answer to that, and turned away, leaving him to close the door and follow her into the inner recesses.

  Laetitia and Georgiana were indeed taking tea. Georgiana was displayed fragilely on a chaise longue, bony as a halfpenny rabbit, and dressed in delicious mauves and grays. Tea was balanced on a three-toed, piecrust table at her elbow. She looked at Pitt without displeasure.

  “So you are the policeman? What an odd-looking creature you are, to be sure. Pray do not be vulgar with me. I am extremely delicate. I suffer.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.” Pitt controlled his face with an effort. “I hope to disturb you very little.”

  “You have already disturbed me, but I shall put up with it in good grace, in the name of necessity. I am Georgiana Duff. This,” she pointed to a slightly younger, better-upholstered version of herself in the other chair, “is my sister, Laetitia Doran. She is the one to have the misfortune, or the ill-judgment, to own a house in such a disastrous place; so you had better address your remarks to
her.”

  Pitt turned to Laetitia.

  “Indeed, Mrs. Doran, my apologies again; but owing to the tragic discovery in the gardens, I am sure you understand it is necessary for us to question the servants, especially the younger, female servants, in all the houses that face onto the square.”

  Laetitia blinked.

  “Of course,” Georgiana said sharply. “Is that all you’ve come to say?”

  “To ask your permission to speak to your servants,” Pitt replied. Georgiana snorted. “You’ll do it anyway!”

  “I would prefer to do it with your permission, ma’am.”

  “Don’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ I don’t like it. And don’t stand there towering over me. You make me feel quite giddy. Sit down, or I shall faint!”

  Pitt sat down, stifling a smile.

  “Thank you. Have I your permission to interview your servants?” he looked at Laetitia.

  “Yes, yes I suppose so,” she said uncomfortably. “Please endeavor not to upset them. It is so hard to replace a servant satisfactorily these days. And poor Georgiana must be properly looked after.”

  Pitt privately thought that “poor Georgiana” would see to it herself that, come hell or high water, she would be properly looked after.

  “Of course,” he stood up again and moved to the door before Georgiana had time to feel affected by his presence. “Have you had any servants dismissed in the last half year, young women who have left the house?”

  “None,” Laetitia said quickly. “We have been exactly as we are for years! Years and years!”

  “You have no children, ma’am? Daughters who have married and taken a lady’s maid with them?”

  “None at all!”

  “Thank you. I shan’t need to disturb you again,” he went out and closed the door softly.

  He remained in the Doran house for two hours, but he learned nothing there either.

  Charlotte was perfectly correct, Emily was beginning to find that the fashionable life lacked something, a certain bite, for which she was increasingly developing a taste. Beyond question, she enjoyed her life; it was the ideal mode of existence for her. When she and Charlotte were still at home in Cater Street with Mama and Papa, when poor Sarah was alive, Emily had known precisely what suited her. She had determined from very early in their acquaintance that she would marry Lord George Ashworth; and a very satisfactory arrangement it had proved. Of course George had his faults, but then what man did not? His overriding virtue was that he appreciated her, and was constantly both generous and civil; and he was undoubtedly handsome to look at, and witty when he chose. It would be pleasant if he would gamble a little less, it was a shocking waste of money. But if he flirted, he was eminently discreet about it, and he very seldom went out without inviting Emily also; and he did not nag her as to her occupations or the female society she kept. And that was a considerable point in his favor. Emily knew any number of wives who were forever being left at home while their husbands went to places wholly unsuitable for a woman of any decency at all, and yet criticized them for extravagance or for the afternoon parties they themselves put on.

  But undeniably there was a certain lack, a purposelessness to her present round. Since she was Lady Ashworth, she had already done with relative ease all the social climbing she desired, at least for the moment. Charlotte’s disgusting mystery might prove to be just the diversion she required, and it had the additional advantage of being genuinely helpful to someone, if the wretched girl were ever found!

  And also, she was very fond of her sister. Of course Charlotte was socially impossible! It would never do to introduce her to the afternoons, the dinners, and the balls she herself attended; although on some of the more pompous occasions she had frequently found it passing through her mind to wonder what Charlotte might have said, had she been there. This affair would also give her an opportunity for them to do something together, which in itself would be pleasant.

  When George returned, in time to change for dinner, she abandoned her dignity and scampered up the stairs after him. He turned at the top in surprise.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I want to meet Christina Balantyne,” she said immediately.

  “Tonight?” He was incredulous, a smile on his elegant mouth. “She’s not all that amusing, I assure you!”

  “I don’t want to be amused. I want to be invited to her house, or at least to be able to call without obviously seeking her acquaintance.”

  “Whatever for?” His eyebrows went up over his dark eyes. “Is it Augusta you want to meet? Very grand, Augusta. Her father was a duke, and she’s lived up to it all her life; not that it is any effort, I think.”

  It was not the reason, but it seemed an excellent explanation to adopt.

  “Yes, I would. Please, George?” she smiled at him frankly.

  “You’ll be disappointed. You won’t like her,” he looked down with a faint frown.

  “I don’t care about liking her, I just want to be able to call!”

  “Why?”

  “George, I don’t press you about your friends at White’s, or Boodle’s, or wherever it is; let me entertain myself by calling upon whom I please.” She smiled at him with a mixture of charm, because she genuinely liked him, and honesty, because the pretense between them was wholly one of manners, and there was no real deception.

  He patted her on the cheek and kissed her.

  “It should be easy enough to look up Brandy Balantyne, and he’s an amiable fellow. In fact he’s the best of his family, by a long way. You’ll be disappointed in the others, I warn you!”

  “Maybe,” she smiled seraphically, utterly satisfied. “But I wish to discover for myself.”

  It was three days before Emily’s plans bore fruit and she was able to dress carefully in muted browns with gold trimmings and fur muff against the cold, and set out to call upon Christina Balantyne. Her attire seemed to her precisely the right mixture of dignity and assurance, coupled with the quality of friendliness that a lady of title could afford to extend toward someone who was very nearly of her own social rank, but not quite. She had also taken the trouble to ascertain that Christina would be at home this afternoon: and that had required some delicate detective work through her lady’s maid, who just happened to have scraped an acquaintance with the lady’s maid of a certain Susanna Barclay, who was in the habit of calling at Callander Square herself. Indeed, there lay more in common between Emily and Mr. Pitt than Pitt would have imagined.

  Emily duly bade her carriage with its footmen wait, and presented herself at the door of the Balantynes’ house at quarter to four. It was opened by the parlormaid, as was the custom in the afternoon. Emily smiled charmingly, took her card from its ivory case, and held it out in an elegantly gloved little hand. She was proud of her hands.

  The parlormaid took it, read it without appearing to, and returned the smile.

  “If your ladyship would be pleased to come in, Lady Augusta and Miss Christina are receiving in the withdrawing room.” It was an unusually voluble greeting, and could only be accounted for by the fact that Emily was a viscountess, and had not called before, therefore her visit in person, instead of merely leaving a card, was something of an honor; and a good parlormaid was as well versed in the niceties of social distinctions as her mistress.

  She did not knock at the door, such would have been considered vulgar, but pushed it open and announced Emily.

  “Lady Ashworth.”

  Emily was agog with curiosity, but naturally she concealed it with a magnificent dignity. She sailed into the room looking neither to right nor left, holding out her hand. There was a slight flutter among the half dozen or so ladies present, a natural interest quickly stifled by protocol. It was not done to display such an unsophisticated emotion.

  Lady Augusta remained seated.

  “How charming,” she said with a slight lift in her voice. “Pray do sit down, Lady Ashworth. So gracious of you to call.”

  Emily sat down
, arranging her skirt almost absently, but precisely to its best advantage.

  “I’m sure we have many mutual friends,” Emily said noncommittally. “It must be only chance that we have not met before.”

  “Indeed,” Augusta would not commit herself either. “I know you are acquainted with my daughter, Christina.” It was a statement. Emily looked across at the pretty face of Christina with its soft little chin and full lips. It was an unusual face; far more important than beauty, it had individuality, and considerable provocation, a face that men would no doubt find attractive. It promised both appetite and yielding. But then men were incredibly foolish where women were concerned. Emily could see at a glance the hardness in the balance of the pert nose and the curve of the lips. A taker, not a giver, Emily judged. She stored her decision, and turned to the next woman to whom Augusta was already directing her.

  “Lady Carlton,” Augusta was saying. “Sir Robert is in the government, you know, the Foreign Office.”

  Emily smiled across. This woman was entirely different, wide-mouthed, less pretty, warmer. But now her hands were knotted in her lap, and there were the finest of lines round her eyes and mouth. She was older than Christina, perhaps even in her middle thirties, and there was a nervousness, a tension underlying the pleasantness. She and Emily exchanged inclinations of the head and a polite recognition. Others were introduced and conversation began; first about the weather, which was exceptionally gentle for late October, then about fashion, and thence into the truly interesting area of gossip. Tea was served at four o’clock, brought in by the parlormaid and poured by Lady Augusta.

  Emily contrived to engage herself with Christina and Euphemia Carlton. Without difficulty the subject of the bodies in the square was introduced.

  “Quite shocking,” Euphemia shivered. “Poor little souls.” A bleak look passed over her face.

  “I daresay they knew nothing about it,” Christina answered realistically. “I understand they were newborn. In fact they may even have been born dead.”

  “They still had souls,” Euphemia stared into the distance.