by Anne Perry
“What do you mean?” Emily affected innocence.
“Well ...” Fanny hunched her shoulders in a shrug. “She weren’t a flirt. She were sort o’—proper. Quiet like.”
“And nobody saw her at all?” Emily said incredulously.
“It were dark! She fell out some time in the evening. We was all inside.”
Emily gazed at her. “How do you know? Do you know where everyone was?”
Fanny screwed up her face. “Well, we would be, wouldn’t we? Where else would anyone be on a wet night in the middle o’ winter?”
“Oh.” Emily sat back against the thin pillow. “I thought maybe you actually knew where everyone was: at supper in the kitchen, or in the servants hall.”
“No one knows when she fell out,” Fanny explained patiently. “Any’ow, she were there at supper wiv us ’erself.”
“You mean—” Emily opened her eyes wider. “You mean she fell during the night? What was the last time anyone saw her?”
“Edith said good night to ’er ’baht ’alf nine,” Fanny replied, thinking hard. “Me an’ Prim was playin’ cards. Dulcie weren’t feelin’ that special, so it must ’a bin after that, mustn’t it?”
“But that doesn’t make sense!” Emily persisted. “Why should she be leaning out of a window during the night? You don’t think—” She took a deep bream and waited. “You don’t think she had someone climbing in?”
“Oh no!” Fanny’s shock was genuine and profound. “Not Dulcie! You mean a—a follower? Never! Not ’er, she weren’t...” Her little face set in practical lines. “Any’ow, if’n yer was going to ’ave a follower in the ’ouse, yer wouldn’t ’ave the poor soul climb up no drainpipe to an attic winder; yer’d creep down an’ let ’im in the scullery door, wouldn’t yer? She weren’t daft! But she weren’t loose neither.” She finished the last of the cocoa and looked at Emily over the rim of her cup, then automatically pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Know what I reckon, Amelia?”
Emily was agog, leaning forward to urge her on. “What?”
Fanny’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I reckon as she saw summink the night Mr. Robert were murdered, and someone came back an’ murdered ’er, in case she told that rozzer as was ’ere askin’!”
Emily breathed out in a careful sigh of amazement. “Oh Fanny! You could be right! You think there was a break-in?”
Fanny shook her head vigorously. “No, there weren’t—we’d ’a known. Mr. Redditch is most partic’lar, ’specially after there were that terrible robbery when Mr. Robert were murdered. All the doors and winders is looked ter special every night afore ’e goes ter bed ’isself. ’Im or Albert goes over every one.”
“Well, could anyone have got in before that?” Emily asked eagerly.
“Nah!” Fanny smiled at her innocence. “ ’Ow? There’s only the front door, an’ yer can’t come in that ’less someone opens it for yer; and the back door’d mean ’e ’ad ter come through the kitchen, and there’s always people there, Cook or Mary at least, an’ on a night wiv guests, near all of us.”
“Who were the guests that night? Do you know?”
“The two Danver gentlemen and the ladies, Miss ’arriet and the old Miss Danver, an’ Mr. and Mrs. Asherson. ’E’s ever so ’andsome, Mr. Asherson, in a sort o’ broodin’ way. I know Nora’s always on about ’im. I reckon as she’s got a fancy for ’im rotten!” She sniffed, unconsciously imitating the housekeeper’s tone. “Silly little article! What’d she get out of it, ’ceptin’ misery?”
“Then it must have been someone already in the house,” Emily whispered back, entirely forgetting her accent, but Fanny appeared not to notice. “Or someone in the house let in another person?”
“Like ’oo?” Fanny was indignant. “In’t none of us servants ’d do that! Anyway, we weren’t none of us ’ere when Mr. Robert were killed, ’ceptin’ Mary an’ Dulcie ’erself. An’ Mary’s in the kitchen and nobody came through that way or we’d all ’a seen ’em. Come ter that, Albert was on in the ’all.”
“So it was someone here,” Emily agreed. “The only other possibility is that Dulcie crept down during the night and let someone in herself—or Mary did, I suppose.” She added that only in the interests of strict logic; she did not believe for a moment that either girl had done such a thing. She had the information she wanted: it had happened after dinner and could have been before the guests left, but there had definitely been no break-in. “Fanny, I think you’re right!” She leaned forward, gripping Fanny’s thin arm. “You’d better say nothing to anyone at all—in case you fall out of a window as well! Promise me.”
Fanny shook her head, eyes grave. “I won’t! Oh, believe the, I won’t. I don’t want ter end up squashed on the pavement like ’er, poor thing. An’ you better keep a still tongue too.”
“I swear!” Emily said with conviction. “And I’ll put a chair against my door.”
“You better ’ad,” Fanny agreed. “Me too!” She uncurled her legs and slid to the floor, hugging her nightgown round her, shivering now the cocoa was finished. “G’night, ’melia.”
But even with the chair wedged under the handle Emily did not sleep easily. Several times she woke with a start, uncertain if she had heard footsteps in the passage outside, and whether they had stopped outside her door. Could someone have tried the handle? The wind rattled the loose sash frame, and she froze in terror, waiting till the sound came again and she could be certain what it was. Suspicions churned in her mind, slipping in and out of dreams.
With daylight courage returned, but she was still nervous; it took all her concentration not to make any mistakes. As she went from one pedestrian duty to the next, she was always aware of other people, of movement, shadows. By evening she was so tired she could have wept with exhaustion. She felt imprisoned in the house, hurried from one place to another with never any time to be alone, yet carrying her loneliness like a weight inside. And always time was the enemy. In a way it was a blessing to have work to occupy her.
Charlotte could only imagine what might be happening to Emily after they parted in the rain at the park gates. It was useless to think about it; she could do nothing. And she must keep lying to Pitt or he would know she was working to find the truth—and then he was certain to realize that she was doing so because Ballarat was doing nothing—no one would do anything. The loneliness of having to lie to him was one of the worse pains she had ever known. The luxury of hiding nothing, carrying no knowledge alone, was something she was so used to she had forgotten its value. Now it would only be selfishness, and she did not even consider it. Nevertheless, the hurt caught her by surprise.
But there were small kindnesses, friendships where she had not thought to find them. A strange little man in a coster’s coat and cap brought her a bag of herrings and refused to be paid, hurrying away into the rain without looking back, as though embarrassed to be thanked. One morning she found a bundle of kindling sticks on the back step, and two days later there was another bundle. She never saw who left them. The greengrocer became curt to the point of outright rudeness, but the coal merchant continued to deliver, and she thought his sacks were if anything a little fuller.
Caroline did not come back, but she wrote every day saying that Daniel and Jemima were well and offering to do anything she could to help.
The letter that touched her most came from Great-aunt Vespasia, who was ill with bronchitis and confined to her bed. She had no doubt whatsoever that Pitt was innocent, and as soon as the time was appropriate, if it should come to such a ridiculous pass, she would instruct her lawyer to act on his behalf. She also enclosed ten guineas, for which she hoped Charlotte would not be silly enough to take offense. One could not fight on an empty stomach—and quite obviously a fight was on hand.
The writing was shaky and a little crooked on the page, and Charlotte was struck with cold shock as she realized that Aunt Vespasia was old and frailty was catching up with her.
She stood in the kitchen in the early m
orning holding the blue deckled paper in her hand. It seemed as if all the good and certain things in the world were fading fast; there was a chill so close to the skin no fires could dispel it.
She went to visit Pitt again, waiting in the shivering rain with other quiet, sad-faced women whose fathers, husbands, or sons rotted away in the Steel. Some were violent, some greedy, brutal by nature of circumstance, many merely inadequate to cope with life in the struggling, overcrowded streets where only the strongest endure.
Charlotte had time for pity, time to wonder and think about these other women—it was easier to ache for another’s pain than work through the realities of her own. That made it easier to face Pitt and lie, smiling as if she had confidence and smothering her fear if she occupied the storm of emotion inside herself with something else.
When at last she was permitted in she was not allowed to touch him, only to sit across the table and stare into his face, seeing the dirt and the bruises, the hollows round his eyes where shock could not be hidden by his forced smile. Never in her life had she had to live so difficult or so complete a lie. He knew her so well, she had never succeeded in deceiving him before. Now she met his eyes and lied as easily as if he had been a child instead of a man, someone to be protected and comforted with stories while she bore the truth.
“Yes, we are all perfectly well,” she said quickly. “Although of course we miss you terribly! But we have enough of everything, so I haven’t had to ask Mama or Emily for any help, although I’m sure they’ll give it if it should be necessary. No, I haven’t been back to the Yorks’. I’m leaving it to Mr. Ballarat, as you said. . . . Well, if he hasn’t sent anyone to see you yet it must be because he doesn’t need to.” She kept mastery of the conversation, permitting no time for interruptions, questions she could not answer.
“Where’s Emily? At home. They wouldn’t let her in here, she isn’t family—at least, not close enough. Sisters-in-law don’t count. Yes, Jack Radley is being very helpful. . . .”
Emily was in the laundry room doing the job she disliked most intensely: ironing the starched frills of cotton aprons, half a dozen of them. Somehow Edith had taken advantage of some absence of mind to maneuver Emily into doing her share as well. She looked up in surprise when Mary came to the door, glanced all round her, then slipped in and closed it, fingers to her lips.
“What is it?” Emily whispered.
“A man!” Mary said urgently, her voice so low her words were almost swallowed. “You got a follower!”
“I haven’t!” Emily denied fiercely. She certainly did not need that kind of trouble. And it was totally unjust; she had encouraged no one. In fact, she had given the butcher’s boy a flea in his ear when he had smiled at her, impudent creature.
“Yes you ’ave!” Mary insisted. “Scruffy, ’e is, an’ looks like ’e just bin up a chimney! But spoke awful nice an’ polite, an’ if’n ’e were washed ’e could be real nice, I reckon.”
“Well, I don’t know him!” Emily said fiercely. “Tell him to go away!”
“Won’t you even come and see—”
“No! Do you want me to lose my character?”
“ ’E’s awful keen.”
“I’ll be thrown out!” Emily exploded.
“But ’e says ’e knows you!” Mary tried once more. “C’mon, Amelia; ’e could be—Well, d’you want to stay a lady’s maid all your life?”
“It’s a lot better than being out on the street without a character!” Emily hissed back.
“Well, if you’re really sure. ’Is name is Jack suffink.”
Emily froze. “What?”
“ ’Is name is Jack suffink,” Mary repeated.
Emily dropped the iron. “I’ll come! Where is he? Has anyone else seen him?”
“You changed yer mind pretty quick!” Mary said with profound satisfaction. “But yer’d better be sharp! If Cook catches yer, yer’ll be in dead trouble. ’E’s at the scullery door. On wiv yer! ’Urry!”
Emily ran from the laundry room along the corridor, through the kitchen and scullery to the back door, with Mary close behind her, keeping watch for cook’s return.
Emily could hardly believe what she saw. The man standing in the rain on the back steps beside the coke scuttles and rubbish cans was dressed in a dark, ragged coat that came past his knees, and his face was all but hidden by a broad-brimmed hat and a lock of sooty hair that fell over his brow. His skin seemed grimy, as if he had indeed come down a chimney.
“Jack?” Emily said incredulously.
He grinned, showing startlingly white teeth in his filthy face. She was so glad to see him she wanted to laugh, but realized immediately her laughter would turn to tears. It all rushed through her in a torrent so fierce she said nothing at all.
“Are you all right?” he demanded. “You look dreadful!”
Then she did start to laugh, a little hysterically, but stopped herself when she realized Mary could hear her. She controlled her voice with an effort. “Yes, I’m fine. I put a chair under my door at night. But I need to talk to you. How is Charlotte?”
“It’s very hard on her, and we’re not getting anywhere.”
There was a shout inside the scullery and Emily knew someone was back who would betray her, if not Cook then Nora.
“Go!” she said quickly. “I’ll go to the cobbler’s in half an hour or so—wait for the round the corner. Please!”
He nodded, and by the time Nora’s curious face came round the outer door he had slipped up the area steps and disappeared.
“What are you doing out ’ere?” Nora said sharply. “I thought I ’eard you talking to someone!”
“Well, you know what ‘thought’ did!” Emily snapped back, then regretted it; not that she had any compunction about Nora, it was just unwise to antagonize her. But it was too late to retreat now, or it would only make her suspicious. “For that matter, what are you doing out here?”
“Er ...” Nora had obviously come to catch Emily out, and now she was confused. She lifted her chin a little higher. “I thought if there was someone ’ere ’e might be bothering you! I came to ’elp!”
“How kind of you,” Emily replied sarcastically. “As you see, there is no one. I came to see how cold it is. I’m going on an errand; I shall need a greatcoat.”
“Of course you will!” Nora said waspishly. “What else do you expect in January?”
“Rain,” Emily replied with growing confidence.
“It is raining! Couldn’t you see that through the window?”
“Not much. I was in the laundry.” She stared at Nora’s handsome bold eyes, daring her to make an open accusation.
“Very well then.” Nora shrugged elaborately; she had elegant shoulders and she knew it. “Then you’d better be on your way, and don’t take ’alf the afternoon about it!”
Emily went back to the laundry room to finish the last apron. She folded it and put away the flatiron, then collected her hat and coat, and after telling Mary where she was going, she set out up the area steps and along Hanover Close towards the main thoroughfare, waiting with every footstep to see Jack, or hear him behind her.
She nearly bumped into him round the first corner. He still looked a sight, and he did not touch her but walked respectfully beside her as if they were both exactly what they appeared: a lady’s maid on an errand and a sweep’s man taking a short time off.
As they walked she told him about the extraordinary conversation she had overheard between Veronica and Loretta, and the only conclusion possible from her discussion with the tweeny.
He in turn told her what little news he had of Charlotte.
By the time that was completed she had Veronica’s boots and was on the way back to Hanover Close. It was raining harder, her feet and her skirts were wet, and the soot was beginning to run in black trickles down his face.
“You look fearful!” she said with a rather painful smile. She was walking less and less quickly. She was dreading going back into the house, not only beca
use this was a moment’s freedom from duty and fear, but, surprisingly sharply, because she would miss Jack. “Your own mother wouldn’t know you!” she added.
He started to laugh, at first very quietly, then more heartily as he gazed at her straight, mud brown coat, her plain hat and sodden boots.
She began to giggle as well, and they stood in the street together streaming wet, laughing on the edge of tears. He put out both his hands and took hers, holding her gently.
For an instant she thought it was on the edge of his tongue to ask her to marry him, but whatever words he had were quickly swallowed back. She had all the Ashworth money, the houses, the position; he had nothing. Love was not enough to offer.
“Jack,” she said without giving herself time to weigh or judge. “Jack—would you consider marrying the?”
The rain was washing the soot off his face in black drops.
“Yes please, Emily. I would like to marry you—very much.”
“Then you may kiss me,” she said with a shy smile.
Slowly, carefully, and very gently he did; and standing there, filthy and cold in the rain, it was exquisitely sweet.
11
PRISON LIFE WAS UNLIKE anything Pitt had imagined.
At first the sheer shock of his arrest, of being suddenly and violently thrust from one side of the law to the other, had numbed his feelings, robbing him of all but the most superficial reactions. Even when he was taken from the local cells to the great prison at Coldbath Fields, the reality of it was purely sensory. He saw the massive walls and heard the door shut, metal clanging on stone, and the strange sour smell assaulted him, catching in his throat. He could taste it on his tongue, but still it did not touch his emotions.
When he woke the following morning, stiff, muscles tight with cold, memory flooded back, and it all seemed preposterous. Any minute someone would come, full of apologies, and he would be taken out and given a good breakfast, hot, probably porridge and bacon, and lots of steaming tea.
But when someone did come it was only the regular jailer with a tin dish of gruel, ordering Pitt to get to his feet and get ready for the day. Pitt protested without thinking, and was told curtly to obey orders or he would find himself at the crank.
