Murder on the Serpentine Read online

  “No one at all,” Charlotte said immediately. “Because I don’t promise to behave graciously. I have to learn what I can. Aunt Vespasia knows everyone, but she’s probably crossing the Alps, or on the Orient Express, or on an island in the Aegean. I miss her.”

  Emily tightened her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I know. But we will just have to manage by ourselves. We could try Felicia.”

  “I met her briefly at the reception,” said Charlotte. “I find it hard to decide exactly how old she is. She has the figure of a woman much younger than sixty, yet—”

  “Never say that!” Emily grasped Charlotte’s hand. “She’s only just passed fifty. Or are you being deliberately…” She let out her breath. “You’re right. She’s not wearing so well…the fine skin…oh, buckets of mud! Am I going to do that? Look sixty and be only fifty, do you think?”

  Charlotte understood Emily’s fear. She had seen it before, and it was real and painful. Beauty mattered far more than it should. But she had no time for it now. “Ask Aunt Vespasia what she does, because she still looks marvelous,” she advised. “Instead of watching her when she enters a room, watch everybody else admiring her. You’ll see. Does Felicia care?”

  Emily considered for a moment. “Yes, I think she does,” she answered as they left the steps behind and reached the shade of a huge elm tree soaring into the sky, leaves whispering in the slight wind. “She is afraid of something, and that may be it. Her mother was beautiful too, in the same way, and she lost her looks comparatively young. I don’t know what happened to her. When I first stepped into really high society”—her voice dropped—“with George…” She took a sharp little breath. “It seems like ages ago. Felicia’s mother, I think she was the Countess of something. But she was lovely, and at almost every party or ball. Then in the space of only a few years she seemed to age, and then to forget things. Then we didn’t see her anymore.”

  Charlotte tried to imagine it and found it both painful and frightening. What happened that someone lost everything, lost themselves, in the space of a very few years? It would not be surprising if Felicia feared that the same might happen to her. Charlotte felt that she would, in her place. In fact, her first thought was to picture their own mother, Caroline, strong and vigorous. A few years after Edward Ellison’s death, comparatively young, Caroline had met an actor, of all things, younger than herself, and married him. She had embarked on a new life, full of adventures, and delighted in it.

  Charlotte was happy for her mother, but she realized with surprise how much she was also happy for herself in the thought of it. Suddenly she felt quite differently toward Felicia Whyte, and ashamed of herself too. How easily she leaped to an emotional conclusion, when she knew nothing.

  Emily was waiting for her to respond. Clearly, from the concentration in her face, her mind was following a different train of thought.

  “How sad,” Charlotte said gently. “For how many people does fear of the future take away the present as well?”

  “Too many,” Emily answered. “Do you want to meet again, or not?”

  “Of course.”

  This next encounter was different. Charlotte knew she was reacting to the story of Felicia’s mother, and what she imagined her own reaction might be, were it her life. How would she behave if she could see in her mind a time when she would age too much, and Pitt too little? What would be different between them? Social things, of course; their value in other people’s eyes. But what about more personal things as well, too precious and too private to speak of to anyone else?

  “Good afternoon, Mrs….er…Pitt.” Felicia had nearly forgotten her name in two days—but then, Charlotte was of no importance in the social scene.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Felicia.” Charlotte smiled warmly. “What a perfect way to see the very best of it.” She glanced at the blaze of flowers in the sun. “Do I have you to thank for this also?”

  Felicia hesitated, then decided to accept. “I may have dropped a word or two,” she conceded. “It is always interesting to get a new perspective on…things…It can all become so tedious, after a while.” She gave a characteristic, elegant shrug.

  “I find many things fascinating,” Charlotte said, taking her chance when the slightest opportunity offered itself.

  “Really?” Felicia obviously did not believe her—but then, it would be a terrible gaffe to actually say so. “Have you been abroad for a while?” It was the only explanation she could think of.

  Charlotte thought rapidly. She had dug herself a hole. She needed to climb out of it with some degree of style. “Sometimes it felt like it,” she replied. “I had forgotten how much interesting undercurrent there is in even the most charming occasion. Don’t you agree? So much more is meant than is ever put into words. For example, the emotion behind people’s comments on the most unfortunate and rather odd death of Sir John Halberd.”

  Felicia was plainly startled.

  Charlotte wondered if she had gone too far. Pitt would be furious, and she had no excuse to give him. Then she remembered how restless he had been most of the night. He must be far more worried than he could tell her, and he could not even turn to Lord Narraway, Vespasia’s husband, who had held the position in Special Branch before Pitt. Vespasia herself seemed to know so much that she would often guess what Pitt could not ask her, and tell him anyway. Charlotte realized how excluded she herself had been, by necessity. Pitt could not place her in danger by telling her what she should not know, or jeopardize his own position, on which all their well-being rested.

  She remembered with a chill how frightening it had been when he was dismissed from the police, due to a conspiracy against him. Suddenly they’d faced being homeless and worrying about the next month’s—even the next week’s—security. For Pitt the worst feeling was not the fear of poverty or hardship, but guilt. She had hated that. He had seemed so vulnerable, although he had tried to conceal it, to protect her. Protection was the last thing she had wanted. She had felt not only more frightened, but shut out of his pain, and that was the hardest of all: the loneliness.

  She had to do this. What was a little embarrassment, when the alternative was so much worse?

  “Of course, they will be wondering why on earth he was in a rowing boat on the Serpentine after dark,” she said clearly.

  Felicia smiled and suddenly there was a real warmth to it. “I was wondering if he was really alone,” she replied very softly. “I rather hope he was. He was a dangerous man, in some ways. He knew so much about so many people. I would rather believe it was an idiotic accident than that someone deliberately…let him drown.”

  Charlotte looked as regretful as she could, and spoke very quietly.

  “Do you mean that someone deliberately stood by and watched him drown…or actually caused the accident?”

  Felicia drew in her breath sharply. “Oh…I didn’t think I meant that…But I suppose I do. That’s terrible. I think perhaps I meant that someone else panicked. If it was someone who couldn’t admit to having been there, then that might be…understandable.”

  “I suppose it would,” Charlotte agreed. “If it was…shall we say, a woman of the night, she could have panicked.”

  Felicia stared straight at her. “Or a married woman, perhaps of his own social class. Then she would very definitely wish profoundly to not be seen. Whatever you said, everybody would believe that you were there for the least creditable of reasons. Whatever the truth, that would be the assumption.” Charlotte’s mind raced. Was Felicia speaking of herself? A last affair with a magnetic older man, to prove to herself that she was still beautiful? It was not impossible to understand.

  “Of course you are right,” Charlotte agreed again. “What an appalling position to be in! And I suppose it might not have been for that reason at all.”

  Felicia waited.

  Charlotte was not certain how to phrase the alternative she had been thinking. Emily filled the breach for her.

  “Well, he did, apparently, know a great deal
about very many people. So far as I know, he was always discreet. But perhaps some people, at least, made it worth his while to remain so.”

  “Oh dear. Of course,” Felicia agreed. “How stupid of me not to think of blackmail. There is so much over which a person could be blackmailed, one way or another.”

  Charlotte’s surprise must have been plainer than she intended.

  “Oh, not necessarily a crime,” Felicia said with dry, rather harsh amusement. “Life is full of indiscretions, at least a life of any interest is. And it isn’t just that no one should know, or does know. It’s that the wrong people shouldn’t.”

  Charlotte’s mind was teeming with ideas. Felicia mistook her silence for doubt.

  “My dear, it isn’t even what actually happened—or didn’t happen, for that matter—it’s what one makes of it.”

  Charlotte remained silent, in the hope that Felicia would continue.

  Felicia glanced around, and lowered her voice a little. “Take Delia Kendrick, for example. She wasn’t Kendrick’s first choice, you know?” She raised her eyebrows a little. Charlotte’s look of total incomprehension satisfied her. “He courted Arabella Nash, daughter of the Duchess of Lansdowne. Everyone thought they would marry. But they didn’t. Of course it was said that she declined. But they always say that. A man never says he found out something about her. True or not, he would be socially ruined.”

  “And people assumed she had…” Charlotte left the sentence unfinished; the rest was not necessary.

  “Naturally,” Felicia agreed. “He was hell-bent on marrying her. A tremendous step up for him. He was clever enough, and most agreeable-looking, but came from nowhere! We all knew he would make money, of course, but that isn’t the same thing. New money, and all that. It doesn’t do…not socially.”

  “But he left her anyway?” Charlotte said with surprise.

  “Not at all,” Felicia answered impatiently. “The duchess cut off the relationship. New money wasn’t good enough for her, when Arabella had the offer of a title. She’s Marchioness of Something-or-other now. And not a penny to bless herself with, except what she brought with her.”

  “How very foolish,” Charlotte said impulsively, then wished she had not. She saw Felicia’s amusement.

  “Not really,” Felicia replied. “Delia is far more of a match for him. Even if he wasn’t her first choice either.”

  Charlotte said nothing.

  “Married before,” Felicia explained. “Her first husband died in the oddest circumstances. Nobody seems to know what really happened. As I said, only the most colorless people have nothing in their lives they would prefer not discussed. Nothing to discuss, I suppose…”

  “Or else they have kept it rather better hidden,” Charlotte suggested. “Did Sir John Halberd really know more than other people?”

  An expression crossed Felicia’s face—a mixture of pain and anticipation—that was too complicated to read. “My husband was very fond of him. They both spent time in Africa. Up the Nile, you know. They are not memories you can share with everyone. Too many people haven’t the faintest idea what the realities are, only romantic dreams. Walter would have found it painful to discover that Halberd was a blackmailer.” She stopped abruptly.

  Charlotte realized with a stab of pity that it had just occurred to Felicia that she had unwittingly given her husband an excellent motive for having made sure of Halberd’s silence. Charlotte was certain from the stunned look in Felicia’s eyes that it was unintentional. There was fear in her face now—fear of confusion, of betrayal, perhaps above all of loneliness.

  “Why on earth would he hire a boat for such a thing?” Charlotte asked. “Surely a walk in the park would have been simpler, and far more discreet? It is much more likely it was an assignation that went wrong. One might very well use a boat for that!”

  Relief flooded Felicia’s face. She was probably not aware of how clear it was to see.

  “Of course,” she agreed. “Yes, of course. Let us talk of something more pleasant. Does your husband enjoy horse-racing, Mrs. Pitt? That was something Sir John had developed an interest in.” She gave the graceful little shrug again. “Mind you, a lot of people have! It rather goes hand in hand with an acquaintance with the Prince of Wales.” She smiled with a very slightly rueful twist. “That is one thing that excites his passion these days. Of course, his position requires a lot of him—attending balls, receptions, diplomatic dinners, and so on—but racing is different. That is a love, never a duty. What he wants more than anything else is to win the Derby again. And of course any other race that is really important. Then he’d put the animal out to stud, and its lineage would be priceless. Another Eclipse. My husband tells me all the greatest British racehorses are descended from Eclipse.”

  “I think my husband might be interested to learn that.” Charlotte was not really lying. Pitt had never shown the slightest interest in horse-racing, but anything to do with this case would hold his attention.

  They talked a little further, until they were interrupted by others joining them, and good manners dictated they change the subject to something more general.

  —

  BY FIVE O’CLOCK IN the afternoon, they were in Emily’s carriage, taking Charlotte home.

  “Well?” Emily asked with some urgency.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replied. “Very interesting. Tell me, Lady Felicia spoke quite a lot about the Prince of Wales. I think I noticed a change in her tone when she mentioned his name, but I’m not sure if I imagined it.”

  “You didn’t,” Emily answered. “I saw it in her face. It made me wonder what might have happened in the past. For one reason or another, I think she was fond of him, and perhaps still is. Of course, sometimes we remember the past as we would like it to have been. It gets a little gentler, a little sweeter each time we recount it to ourselves. Perhaps when things are difficult, it’s a comfort.”

  Emily drew in her breath and let it out again with a sigh. Charlotte wondered if it was for Felicia Whyte or for herself, just a fraction, but it would be tactless to ask.

  “Thank you for your help,” she said. “This afternoon has given me quite a lot to think about.”

  “Don’t you want to meet Delia Kendrick?” Emily asked after a moment. “And Alan Kendrick too, perhaps?”

  “Oh, yes! If you don’t mind?”

  Emily moderated her smile, not to betray herself too much.

  “Not at all.”

  —

  PITT WAS VERY TIRED when he came home. He did not say anything, but Charlotte knew him too well for him to hide his anxiety, or the effort it took him to appear cheerful.

  She decided to tell him about the garden party, and that she had been there with Emily. This way she would have been honest, but actually told him very little.

  “Did you enjoy it?” he asked.

  He was smiling as he sat back in the big chair and crossed his legs. He was too quick. He must have seen the excitement in her, even though she had tried to conceal it.

  “Oh, yes,” she said casually. This was clearly not the time to go into detail, certainly not about the facts and speculations regarding Lady Felicia Whyte and a possible relationship with the Prince of Wales. She realized he was looking at her, waiting for something further. He knew her at times uncomfortably well.

  “There was a lot of gossip about the Prince of Wales and his love of horse-racing,” she added.

  “That’s not gossip,” he replied. “It is a fact that is in public knowledge.” He was still looking at her very steadily.

  “I know. The gossip part came in that it has replaced his love of women, for reasons of health.”

  “Oh.” Then he smiled. “You are right, that is gossip, but interesting. It makes certain people less able to gain his favor, and others more so.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she agreed, keeping her voice level. Nevertheless, he caught something in it. “Charlotte…?”

  “I know!” she said quickly. “I did not ask for
the information. I only listened, as one has to, to be polite. I repeated it to you because I understood at least some of the implications. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  He smiled and accepted, but she knew the discussion was not over.

  —

  AT BREAKFAST DANIEL AND Jemima were both at the table, Daniel hurrying so he would be at school on time. Yet Charlotte noticed him hesitate, look at his father, take another mouthful of toast, and then hesitate again. She saw his hand gripping the knife too hard.

  “Papa,” Daniel said at last.

  Pitt looked up from his plate.

  Daniel swallowed. “I’ve decided I don’t want to take Latin anymore. Nobody uses Latin except Catholic priests. I’d rather do German.” He was asking Pitt’s permission, even though he made it a statement.

  Charlotte looked at Pitt and saw the disappointment in his face. He had enjoyed Latin when it was taught to him by Sir Arthur Desmond’s son’s tutor. But that was by individual tutorial. Daniel was in a school class. There was no way imaginable that Pitt could afford to give his son the education he had received himself. But Daniel had a father, while Pitt had lost his so young.

  “Latin is the basis of so many languages,” Pitt argued. “Including our own. And it is an excellent discipline.” Charlotte could feel her own stomach tense now. It would be so easy for Pitt to persuade Daniel, knowing how much his son wanted to please him. He would not have to do much, just a few expressions of his will. No punishment. No reward except approval, the only one that mattered.

  Pitt hesitated. Daniel waited.

  Charlotte ached to intervene, but that would diminish Daniel in his own estimation if it was Charlotte who actually swung the decision in his favor.

  “German won’t be easy,” Pitt said, not even glancing at Charlotte.

  Jemima also was waiting, her toast halfway to her mouth.

  “I know,” Daniel answered. “But I want to.”

  “Why?” Pitt asked.