Murder on the Serpentine Page 5

  Whatever Pitt was doing must be desperate for him to have enlisted Carlisle’s help. That was the part that alarmed her.

  She had not asked Pitt about it, since she knew that if he could have told her, he would have. To put him in the position of having to refuse her would only hurt them both. It was clear from his preoccupation, and everything else in his manner, that whatever this business was, it troubled him. He did not enjoy formal society engagements, and yet he had leaped at the chance to go. He did not even complain about having to wear a dinner suit of immaculate black and a starched shirt. Even though he looked very distinguished, he felt out of place. The very fact that he did not try to evade going was enough to make her certain that he had no choice.

  She had watched him carefully. If she could not help him openly, then she would do so without his knowledge. She had lost touch with who was important in society lately, or why: who loved or hated whom; who owed or wanted something. She would have to pay a great deal of attention and try to recall the skills she’d had in her single days, and a few she had still practiced when Pitt was a regular policeman.

  Charlotte had entered the party on Pitt’s arm, but not fought against their separation when courtesy required it. She knew that he was unlikely to do whatever he had come for with her beside him. Also, she wanted to watch, observe, see the unspoken emotions that are betrayed by the expressions on faces, the angles of the body, the tensions that people themselves were unaware of.

  Was Lady Felicia Whyte of any importance? She certainly had the air of a woman who thought she was in danger of losing the place she felt was her right. There was an edge to her voice, a stiffness in the way she moved. Watching her through the evening, Charlotte saw the hard lines appear on her face now and then, just fleetingly, before she mastered them. But never did she see her at ease, even when her husband stood beside her. Once he reached out, as if to touch her, then changed his mind.

  She looked at Pitt as their hansom passed under a streetlamp and the light illuminated his features for a moment. He was deep in thought, unaware of her. Now it was she who reached out to lay her hand on his sleeve, and then changed her mind. He could not tell her anything—that she already knew. She was being childish merely wanting him to talk to her.

  A few moments later they reached Keppel Street and the hansom pulled up at the curb. Pitt came to attention with a sudden awareness, climbed out, paid the driver, then helped Charlotte to alight with grace. Together they went to the front door. He unlocked it and they went inside. The late summer evening was chill. Daniel and Jemima would be in bed, almost certainly asleep. The maid, Minnie Maude, had left the hall gas lamp on, burning low. The gleam of light on polished wood and the faint smell of lavender polish was comforting, like the smile of a friend.

  “Thank you,” Pitt said quietly to Charlotte. “It cannot have been much fun for you.”

  She wondered whether to say that it had been but decided to preserve the honesty that was so precious between them. “It had its pleasures,” she said simply. “But it’s nice to be home.”

  Pitt turned the one gas bracket even lower, barely a glow. Charlotte led the way upstairs, stopping on the landing to very quietly open the door of eighteen-year-old Jemima’s room. She stood for a moment listening to the quiet breathing, then closed the door again. She did the same with fourteen-year-old Daniel. He stirred very slightly but did not awaken. She did it out of habit. She had not expected anything different, yet could not rest until she had assured herself. All was well. Still, she remained awake later wondering why Pitt had gone to the reception at Lord Harborough’s house, and why Carlisle had arranged it so precipitately. Who had Pitt gone to see?

  The only person she had noticed him deliberately approach was Alan Kendrick. From the expression on Felicia Whyte’s face, there had been a very sharp exchange between Kendrick and herself. It appeared sudden, but such emotion does not arise out of nowhere. They knew and disliked each other. Several times after that she had noticed Pitt looking at Kendrick. He had done it discreetly, but she knew him too well to mistake it for chance. Perhaps she should learn more about Kendrick.

  Normally she would have been quite frank about it and asked Aunt Vespasia. But then, so would Pitt, were Vespasia in London. Perhaps there was no choice but to go to her younger sister, Emily? But discreetly, without telling her anything, if such a thing was possible? She only asked Emily’s assistance when it was absolutely necessary.

  Emily’s first marriage had made her Lady Ashworth, and extremely wealthy. When George had died—or, more exactly, been killed—Emily had remained a widow for a while, then married Jack Radley, a charming and handsome man who had done little with his life up to that point. He had since become a member of Parliament, and was gaining a reputation of some value. Charlotte was not unaware of how hard he had worked at that, even if he pretended that it came easily.

  Emily was still the delightful, highly skilled, and observant lady of society that she had always been. But she was bored with that and looking for some of the old adventures.

  —

  ACCORDINGLY CHARLOTTE CALLED UPON Emily a little after ten o’clock the following morning. It was not a suitable hour for a visit, but she chose it in order to have a better chance of finding Emily at home and not yet receiving anyone else. She was fortunate to succeed.

  Emily’s house was far larger than her own, but Charlotte had long ago become accustomed to it. Her own house in Keppel Street was perfectly comfortable, and filled with memories, almost all of them happy in one way or another.

  Emily had a very different life—wealthy, glamorous, but without the danger or victories of Charlotte’s. Charlotte would not have exchanged her life for anyone else’s. She knew there were certainly times when Emily would have.

  The maid showed her up to Emily’s boudoir. This was not a bedroom but a smaller and very much more feminine and personal sitting room upstairs off the main landing. It was decorated in muted shades of cream and pink and gold, lots of florals, cushions like giant heaps of roses—an undisciplined side of Emily she showed hardly anyone else. The chairs were extraordinarily comfortable. There were books chosen for interest and pleasure on every shelf of the case—lots of novels, several collections of poetry, and scrapbooks she had made…and never looked at since. Three separate bowls of flowers sat on tables: roses in golden yellow; irises, their dark purple giving form and shape to more complicated arrangements.

  Emily was a couple of years younger than Charlotte, just reaching forty, with no gray visible in her lovely hair. But then, as fair as it was, the gray probably would not show for years. She was dressed in pale green, the color that flattered her most.

  She came forward, her face alight with pleasure, and gave Charlotte a quick hug. Then she regarded her more closely, and with interest.

  “Something has happened,” she observed. “A concern, but not a disaster, at least not yet.” It was comforting to be known and understood without explanation. It was also disconcerting to be read at a glance so accurately. But Charlotte had seldom been able to hide her emotions for very long.

  “As usual, you are right.” She sat down in her favorite chair, and Emily sat on the one opposite her. “There are some people I would like to know more about.”

  “A case of Thomas’s,” Emily deduced. “I suppose you can’t tell me about it. I find these secret matters such a bore.” She gave a slight shrug. It was an elegant, very feminine gesture. “It used to be so exciting. Who is it?”

  “I saw them yesterday evening. Alan Kendrick and his wife, and Lady Felicia Whyte and her husband,” Charlotte replied. “And, of course, their circle in general.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know! That’s why I need to know more.” Charlotte felt that was a very reasonable explanation. Regardless, it was the only one she had.

  “You are detecting behind Thomas’s back,” Emily concluded.

  Charlotte bit her lip and moved uncomfortably on the soft, embracing cha
ir. “Not…detecting, just learning a little more. Being prepared…”

  “Then I will be prepared with you,” Emily responded. “Give me an hour or two and I will find out where we should go. I presume you want to begin as soon as possible?”

  “Yes, please.” Charlotte hesitated. Should she say more? Emily was obviously waiting. Could she trust her discretion?

  Emily continued to wait, but the brightness slowly faded in her eyes.

  Charlotte took the risk. “Somebody important died. Watching Thomas yesterday evening, I think that may be what he is concerned with…”

  Emily’s fair eyebrows went up. “Died? Do you mean was killed? Who?”

  “An accident on the river,” Charlotte answered.

  “Oh! You don’t mean Sir John Halberd, do you?”

  Charlotte was taken aback, but perhaps she should not have been. She sometimes forgot how wide Emily’s acquaintance was. “You knew him?”

  “I met him a couple of times.” Emily’s voice dropped with a note of dismay. “I liked him.”

  “Why?” That came out more abruptly than Charlotte had intended, but it was a relevant question. Everything about Halberd mattered now.

  Emily must have appreciated that because she answered without arguing, just a moment’s hesitation for thought. “There was something very direct about him. He seemed never to play for effect. Society is so full of…posing. But I do think he was much cleverer than some people thought. I was surprised that he should die in an accident, and on the Serpentine, of all places. It just doesn’t seem like…who he was. But I suppose many of us are not what we seem. I would hate to be as light and uncomplicated as some people assume I am. Nothing to me but the latest fashion, and a few predictable causes. Does Thomas think Sir John was murdered?”

  Charlotte heard the sadness beneath the words, and she understood perfectly. She had glimpsed that void herself. But this was not the time to acknowledge it. Now, at least, they had a purpose.

  She answered more gently. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything except that Thomas went to a party last evening, at very short notice, and met people he would never normally wish to meet. He hates dressing up, then standing around talking about nothing much, except where people have been and who they met.”

  There was a bleak look in Emily’s face for an instant, almost a sense of fear, as if she were lost; then it vanished.

  “It isn’t what is said. It’s the tone of voice, and all the things that are left out. Have you forgotten so quickly?”

  Charlotte did not bother to answer. “Can you help?”

  “Of course. There is a garden party tomorrow afternoon.” Emily pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It will be high fashion. You had better borrow something from Aunt Vespasia. It may not suit you, since you are of such different coloring, but nobody will be able to find fault with your style.”

  “Aunt Vespasia is in Europe.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Never mind. Her maid will find you something, if you explain the need to her. Her name is Gwen.”

  “I know. Aunt Vespasia calls all her maids Gwen, regardless of what their names really are. I don’t think they mind.”

  “Borrow the dress anyway. I’ll let you know about the party. Now I must begin.” Emily stood up, suddenly alive with purpose.

  —

  CHARLOTTE FELT RATHER SELF-CONSCIOUS wearing one of Aunt Vespasia’s gowns, in spite of the fact that it fit her well and was exactly the right length. It was a shade of deep, warm ivory she had never dared to wear before, and she was not certain it became her. It was clearly expensive and in the very height of fashion. Its style all lay in the cut of the shoulders and the fall of the very slight fullness at the back. It was extraordinarily lovely. She hoped Vespasia had not been saving it for a special occasion. She had asked, and Gwen had assured her that was not the case.

  She straightened her shoulders and reminded herself that a man Pitt was concerned with had died, and she knew from a dozen little signs that he was worried about it. Nothing trivial would have taken him to the reception two days ago—or kept him awake last night. She knew it every time she had stirred; and even when half asleep herself, she was aware of his restlessness.

  Now she crossed the pavement beside Emily and entered under a garlanded gateway into a large, formal garden with lawns, its flight of shallow stone steps flanked by huge stone urns with scarlet and orange nasturtiums trailing over their edges. Lush herbaceous borders were filled with spires of lupines in full bloom and splendid, gaudy poppies.

  “Looks like an army, carrying its spears and banners aloft,” she murmured to Emily.

  “Doesn’t it!” Emily agreed. “Prepare for war! Enemy approaching from the left!”

  Their hostess welcomed them, skillfully hiding the fact that she had no idea who Charlotte was, but her wide, rather pale blue eyes reflected unmistakable admiration for the gown.

  Charlotte felt herself blush, praying it was not also recognition of it. On the other hand, if Vespasia had not worn it yet, how was Charlotte going to explain wearing it before its owner had had the chance? But there was no time now for such considerations. She banished it from her mind, smiled with all the charm she could manage, and allowed herself to be introduced to the first group of women.

  For several minutes the conversation was polite and meaningless. Then a stout woman in a floral dress glanced sideways and Charlotte could see Lady Felicia Whyte talking to one of the few men present.

  “I used to envy her so much,” the woman said with a smile. “He had such an air about him. So dashing, Major Whyte, don’t you think?”

  “I thought him rather quiet,” her friend in green replied. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I think something happened. But of course I have no idea what…”

  “Some dark adventure,” her companion said in a whisper. “Sometimes I think safety is so tedious…”

  Charlotte shivered. So easily did gossip begin. Like a hat pin plunged between the ribs, she thought. You don’t even feel it at the time; only afterward do you wonder where the blood came from.

  “You know who would tell you?” Emily said with an unreadable expression in her face. “Sir John Halberd. He has the air of knowing everything about everybody. I find him fascinating. So polite, and says everything, and when you come to think of it afterward, he told you nothing at all.”

  “Oh dear,” the first woman said in dismay. “Didn’t you know? The poor man died a couple of weeks ago…”

  “Oh no!” Emily gasped, putting on a mask of shock. “What happened?”

  “Apparently he drowned…”

  Charlotte bit her tongue to stop her first reaction. She dared not meet Emily’s eyes. “Where? I didn’t hear of a boat going down,” she said innocently.

  “It was hardly a…a major sinking…” the floral woman answered.

  “You can’t sink very far on the edge of the Serpentine,” her friend said a trifle waspishly. “Not literally, anyway.” Charlotte looked at her with interest. She was a handsome woman in a lean way, marred at the moment by a flicker of malice in her eyes.

  “Do you mean morally?” Charlotte asked, then wondered if she had been too direct. “I always think of little boys playing with sailing boats. Sort of Sunday afternoon thing to do.”

  The woman stared at her as if she had noticed her for the first time.

  “I beg your pardon?” Her tone dared Charlotte to respond.

  “If not literally, then in some other way,” Charlotte said with a sweet smile. “One may drown in several senses of the word.”

  The woman was not deterred. “Are you suggesting he was morally…lost?” she said with incredulity.

  “Is that fatal?” Charlotte was not going to be beaten so easily. She just managed to keep the edge of laughter out of her voice, and sound innocent.

  Now everyone was watching, waiting for the next response. Emily moved a little closer to Charlotte, in a tacit mark of loyalty.

  “Lots of t
hings can be fatal—at least to your reputation in society,” the woman answered. It was clearly meant as a warning.

  Charlotte did not alter her expression in the slightest. “And it would seem that boating on the Serpentine is one of them.”

  The woman hesitated this time before lifting her chin a little and replying, “I still think very highly of him.” She closed her mouth in a hard line.

  “I gather that,” Charlotte said meekly.

  There was a titter of laughter, stifled quickly.

  “I wish I had known him,” Charlotte added. “He seems to have been remarkable.”

  “You have a taste for night boating on the Serpentine?” the lean woman retorted, this time instantly.

  Charlotte knew exactly what she meant. It was a not very subtle suggestion that she conducted a string of affairs behind her husband’s back. Night boating, after the manner of Halberd, was going to become a standing joke.

  Charlotte opened her eyes very wide. “Is it fun?” This time the laughter was less well concealed.

  Quite a few people conducted affairs of one degree of seriousness or another; it was just not mentioned, for one’s own protection. The façade was too valuable to be broken. Certainty took some of the entertainment out of speculation.

  It was Emily who changed the subject, and then decided it was imperative that she introduce Charlotte to Lady Something-or-other.

  “You are outrageous!” she told Charlotte with satisfaction as they moved past the bed of lupines and began up the shallow steps. “Nothing new to learn of Halberd’s death here, maybe?”

  “It was Alan Kendrick whom Thomas seemed interested in at Lord Harborough’s.” They were passing a large urn of geraniums in hot pinks, the scent of them sharp. Bees hovered around, a mass of blue flowers sprawling across the edge of the steps above.

  “I don’t think Delia Kendrick is here,” Emily answered very quietly, at the same time nodding and smiling to an acquaintance coming down the steps. “We will have to find another party for you to shine at. I don’t know whether to tell everyone you are my sister—or no one at all.”