Callander Square

by Anne Perry

  Pitt pulled a small face—extraordinary face the fellow had—and looked at his fingernails.

  “Normal enough, a bit of admiration for a good-looking maid,” Pitt went on thoughtfully. “Lot of men do it. Nothing to remark on. Just could be made to look a bit unfortunate right now.” He looked up, his brilliant, penetrating gaze fixed on Reggie. “Hasn’t been bothering you—Dr. Bolsover—has he?”

  Reggie stared. His brain seemed to melt and freeze again. What should he say? Could he trust Freddie? This was an opportunity to get rid of all of it! Or was it? Just a moment! What if Pitt went to Freddie and charged him? Then Freddie would tell them all about Dolly, and that was quite different! Or did they already know that he had been to the bank and drawn out the hundred pounds? Had he spoken to the footman? Was that the thing? Careful, Reggie, think before you speak. Nearly fell into a trap there.

  “Good heavens, no,” he forced a sickly smile. “Decent chap, Freddie. Bit of a silly ass at times, that’s all. Wouldn’t mean any harm.”

  “Glad to hear that, sir.” Pitt’s eyes did not move from Reggie’s face. “Just thought you might have had a little trouble.”

  “Er—trouble? What made you think that?” Must find out what he actually knew.

  “Talk to all the servants,” Pitt said lightly, “in the course of investigations, you know.”

  Reggie stared fixedly at Pitt’s face.

  He knew! He knew about the footman and the bank! If he told a lie about what he had done with the hundred pounds, the damn fellow would go and check up on it, and find out! Too easy. Have to invent something else.

  “Well,” he began awkwardly, brain racing. Who should he blame, if not Freddie? Who could not deny it? Who was likely? “Well—to tell you the truth, have had a bit of trouble—not Freddie of course, Freddie’s a gentleman. Governess—” yes, that’s it, “governess got a bit het up—single woman, no admirers, stuck in a job minding children all day. Got a few wild ideas and put a bit of pressure on. Any other time I’d have sent her packing, but right now, as you say, a bit embarrassing. Paid her. Dare say I shouldn’t have, but got to keep the peace, what? You’re a married man. Expect you understand. Sooner pay the girl than have her spread gossip all over the place. She won’t do it again. Anyway, after you clear up all this business, no need, eh?”

  “Oh, no,” Pitt pulled a small face. “I take it you don’t want to prosecute?”

  “Good God, no! Whole purpose of paying up, keep it all quiet. Deny it all, if you go to her: so shall I! Have to, after all. Wife, and all that. Got to consider the children too. Three daughters. Dare say you knew? Actually two of my own, Chastity’s my brother’s child. Poor fellow was killed. Took her in, naturally.”

  “Yes, charming child.”

  “Yes, yes. Well, you understand, don’t you? Got to keep it all quiet. Nasty thing if it got out. Very fond of the governess, the girls. And good at her job too,” he said hastily. “Very good.”

  “Quite. Well, thank you, sir, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Good. Good. Get it all cleared up soon, I hope?”

  “I hope so too. Good night sir, and thank you.”

  “Good night; yes, yes, good night.”

  Charlotte was incensed when she heard about it the following day. She whirled round from the sideboard where she had been standing, to face Pitt in his chair.

  “You mean that that dissipated bounder claimed that Jemima was blackmailing him, and you just stood there and let him?” she demanded. “That’s dastardly!”

  “I could hardly contradict him,” Pitt pointed out reasonably. “It seems unlikely, but not by any means impossible.”

  ”Of course it’s impossible!” Charlotte retorted. “Jemima wouldn’t dream of blackmailing anyone.”

  “Spoken from the heart,” Pitt smiled at her with a mixture of affection strongly touched with amusement.

  Charlotte was not to be moved. She felt convinced she was right, it was just a matter of thinking of a reason for it.

  “All right then!” she looked back at him with determination. “From the head then: do you really think it is worth money to try to keep it secret that he beds the parlormaid? Everyone knows anyway. And Mary Ann hasn’t been there all that long,” she let a note of real intellectual triumph creep into her voice. “Not long enough to have been the mother of the first baby! There was one before her for a short time; she got married and left, and another before that who died.” She faced Pitt with a mounting bubble of excitement inside her. “Everyone knows he behaves badly, I expect even his wife knows, although naturally she would pretend not to—”

  He frowned. “Why? Why on earth should she pretend not to know? I would have thought she would be furious, and put a stop to it instantly.”

  Charlotte sighed patiently. Really, men were very unsophisticated at times!

  “I dare say she doesn’t wish for his attentions all the time herself,” she explained, “and is happy enough for him to take them elsewhere. But if she were forced to know about it, I mean to be seen to know about it, then she would have to complain, be injured, horrified, and so on. Society would require it of her. Also she would look foolish, a deceived wife— a rather humiliating position.”

  “But she is a deceived wife,” Pitt pointed out. “Except, of course, that she doesn’t believe the lie, but the offense is the same.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she looked at him sideways for a minute. Was he affecting to be ignorant, or did he really not know? Sometimes he teased her appallingly.

  He waited in innocence.

  “It is not an offense,” she continued after a moment, “if she would rather he did it; at least not against her. The offense would be in making a fool of her in public. Everyone knows he does it, and everyone knows she doesn’t mind. But if she were forced to acknowledge it, then she would have either to create a scene, which would make her seem ridiculous, or else openly to condone it, which would be immoral.”

  “How abysmally cynical,” he observed. “Where did you learn all that?”

  Her face fell.

  “Yes, I know. I think it’s rather disgusting, but that’s what happens. I’ve learned a lot from Emily. She’s very observant, you know; and of course she knows a lot of people of that sort—society, I mean. I would never do that. I should probably have a blazing row.”

  He smiled broadly.

  “I have no doubt at all that you would, my dear.”

  She looked at him quickly.

  He held his hands up in defense.

  “Don’t worry, we can’t afford a parlormaid, and I swear I shall never touch Mrs. Wickes.”

  Considering Mrs. Wickes was fourteen stone and had a moustache, Charlotte did not feel it a great concession.

  “How about Jemima?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t want to press charges,” he replied.

  “Of course he doesn’t! She isn’t guilty!”

  “I rather agree with you,” he said thoughtfully. “Which raises the question of why he told me about it. Rather a superfluous and dangerous invention, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t care! Jemima wouldn’t blackmail him.”

  “So that leaves the rather interesting question of who did.”

  Charlotte caught her breath. “Oh!”

  “Quite,” he stood up in a single movement.

  “You’re not going to charge her?” She caught at his arm.

  “No. But I do have to report it.”

  “Must you?”

  “Of course I must.”

  “But it would damage her! She will probably not be able to disprove it; maybe not even ever!”

  He put his hand on hers for a moment, before removing it gently.

  “I know that, my dear. It will be a great pleasure to me if I can ever prove him a liar.”

  “Oh.” She knew there was no point in arguing. If anything were to be done about it quickly, she would have to do it herself.

  Accordingly when he had left, she ab
andoned her housework leaving a note on the door for Mrs. Wickes, and took herself immediately to Callander Square. The only excuse she had was to visit General Balantyne and quickly manufacture some further service, something she had forgotten to tell him previously.

  When she arrived at the door and was faced by the footman, she still had not settled on anything satisfactory, but fortunately he did not inquire her business, and merely showed her in to the library. The general was behind his desk, apparently not working, since there was no pen to be seen; he was simply staring at a sea of papers. He looked up with some eagerness when she came in.

  “Charlotte, my dear, how very nice to see you!”

  She was a little unprepared for such warmth. What an unpredictable man he was. Perhaps he was still feeling the glow of Christina’s wedding?

  “Good morning, General Balantyne,” she replied with the best-judged mixture of formality and feeling she could manage.

  “Do come in.” He was already standing, coming round the desk toward her. “Sit down by the fire. The day is extremely unpleasant, but I suppose it is all we must expect in January.”

  It came to her quite naturally to decline, then she remembered that she still had not thought of a reason for coming, and it would at least give her time.

  “Thank you, yes, it is very cold. I think it is the wind that makes one feel it so much.”

  He was still merely looking at her. It made her feel rather uncomfortable.

  “One would think all the buildings would be some kind of shelter,” she went on, to fill the silence. “But they only seem to funnel it into fiercer blasts.”

  “You must permit me to have my carriage take you home,” he said seriously. “And perhaps you would like something hot to drink now? A dish of tea?”

  “Oh no, no, thank you,” she said hastily. “I don’t wish to put you to any inconvenience. I only came to—” quickly, what on earth could she have come for? “—because—I suddenly remembered that I had—had left out some rather important letters, left them out of the correct sequence. At least I think I have.” Did that sound feasible?

  “That was most conscientious of you,” he said appreciatively. “I haven’t found anything out of order.”

  “Perhaps if I were to check?” she stood up and surveyed the desk. At sight of it the very idea of order became ridiculous. She turned back to him helplessly.

  “I’ve made rather a mess,” he announced the obvious. “I really would appreciate your assistance again.”

  Something in the expression in his face disturbed her, a gentleness in the eyes, a very direct way he had of looking at her. Good heavens! Surely he had not misunderstood her reason for calling again? Her excuse was thin enough, in truth—but not for that reason! She wanted to catch Jemima, and if she called directly at the Southerons’ for no other reason, she would arouse suspicion, perhaps let Reggie Southeron know, or suspect, her real intentions. Guilty people, and she was sure he was guilty, were inclined to be highly suspicious. Conscience leaped the bounds of logic and saw accusation even where there was none, let alone where it was the precise purpose, inadequately disguised.

  Balantyne was waiting, still watching her.

  “Oh,” she recalled herself to the urgency of disabusing him. “Well—” she glanced at the heap on the desk, “I should be happy to put that in some order, but I cannot offer more than that, I’m afraid.” She smiled, trying to rob her statement of its harshness. “Since I have no maids, I have a rather pressing need to do a little housework. It is really becoming imperative.”

  “Oh,” his face fell. “I’m sorry for having been so inconsiderate. I—of course. I don’t wish to take you away from—” he stammered a little, hastily collecting himself. “Yes, I see. But if you would today, I should be most grateful—” he hesitated, and she was almost sure he was wondering whether to offer her payment, and how to do it tactfully. She knew he was embarrassed, and she felt for him. She smiled easily.

  “Actually I hate housework, and for one day I can excuse myself to my conscience. I dare say it is most unfeminine of me, but I find the Crimean War infinitely more interesting than the pantry.” She moved to the desk, taking her gloves off as she went, keeping her back to him, to give him no opportunity to meet her eyes again, but she was acutely conscious of him standing behind her.

  She was not able to excuse herself at lunchtime, and therefore found herself taking her only opportunity to slip next door a little later than she had planned. However, no one saw her but the scullery maid and the cook’s assistant, and she was at the schoolroom before they commenced their afternoon lessons.

  Jemima was standing at the window, looking down to the square at the front. She turned when Charlotte came in.

  “Oh, Charlotte, how good to see you.” Her face was alight with pleasure, even excitement; and there was a starry glaze to her eyes. “Are you working for General Balantyne again?”

  “Only today,” Charlotte said soberly. “I really came because I wished to see you, without drawing attention to myself.” There was no point in being evasive. She must tell her the truth about Reggie, and before the children returned.

  Jemima seemed to sense no danger, and no urgency.

  “I’m sure Mr. Southeron wouldn’t mind.” She was not looking at Charlotte, but a little beyond her. “I wish you had come for luncheon. You must come tomorrow.”

  Had she not been listening? Charlotte had said she was only here for one day.

  But Jemima had turned back to the window again.

  Charlotte crossed the room and stood beside her. She looked down. There was nothing there but the silent, leafless square, rain-sodden, everything in shades of gray and black, even the grass seemed robbed of its green. Wind keened sharply through the areaways and ruffled a few last deadened leaves on the shrubs. There was nothing there to so attract a young woman’s attention. Someone must have just passed that way. Charlotte had heard no carriage, and horses’ hooves sounded sharply enough, with the rattle of wheels, on the stones. Someone on foot. In this weather? Oh no, not Brandy Balantyne.

  “Jemima!”

  Jemima turned, her eyes still warm and happy. She looked down suddenly, a faint color climbing her cheek.

  “Brandy Balantyne?” Charlotte asked.

  “Do you not like him, Charlotte? From something you said last time, I was not sure.”

  Charlotte had liked him very much, but she dare not say so, yet not lie, and hurt pointlessly.

  “I have only met him a few times, and then briefly. If you remember, I was not a social visitor there, only someone employed to help.” That was cruel, and she knew it, but Jemima must not be allowed to let dreams grow out of proportion. The more vivid the dream, the more painful the awakening.

  The hurt showed immediately in Jemima’s face.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, I know that. And I know what you are trying to say. You are quite right, of course.”

  Charlotte wanted to warn her about Reggie Southeron, but that would have meant bringing up the subject of a master who slept with maids, and at this very moment it would seem a crude thing to say, and perhaps totally unjust. It was no parallel, and she did not wish Jemima to think for one moment that she imagined it was. She would have to leave it for another time, a time less open to pain and misunderstanding. All the explanations in the world would not get rid of the impression of a likeness in Jemima’s mind, if she were to mention Reggie and parlormaids and blackmail in the same breath with Brandy Balantyne.

  “I must return,” she said instead. “I merely wanted to see you, and to—to ask you to take great care of yourself. Sometimes people who are frightened will blame others, in investigations like this. I heard about poor Miss Doran. Be most guarded in what you say!”

  Jemima looked a little puzzled, but she agreed easily enough, and five minutes later Charlotte was out in the icy street again, hurrying back to the library and the general’s papers, feeling unsatisfied with herself, and doubly afraid for J
emima.

  Christina was not away after her wedding for more than a week, possibly because of the tragedies that had happened in the square. It had been considered an unsuitable time for a holiday in celebration; possibly, also, no one had the heart for it: least of all Alan Ross. Even Christina, marrying days after the discovery of Helena’s body, could hardly demand of him a honeymoon spirit. Emily, calling upon her barely as soon as was decent, thought privately that she might well consider herself fortunate not to have had the wedding itself postponed. That might truly have been disastrous. Under the circumstances she might be in, even a couple of weeks could make her a liar. Premature birth could be stretched only so far, with a hope of being believed!

  She called on Christina with no particular purpose in mind, except that she hoped to learn something further about Helena Doran. They had been much of an age, they were bound to have had a deal in common, attended the same parties, known the same people. She doubted they would have been friends then, and Christina might feel a little bitter about having just married a man whom everyone knew to have loved Helena, at least in the past. But she must know something; and frequently as much truth was spoken in dislike as there ever was in friendship, especially of the dead. Funny how death seemed to obscure all the relevant truths in a sugar coating of decency. Must make detection very difficult.

  Alan Ross’s house was in an elegant street less than half a mile from Callander Square. It could not claim the same opulence, nor the same fashionable grace, but it was a substantial establishment, and when Emily knocked she was admitted by a smart parlormaid.

  Christina seemed quite pleased to see her, although Emily thought she looked a little pale. Honeymoons were very often something of a shock to a woman, but someone who had lain quite happily with a footman should not have encountered many surprises!

  “Good afternoon, Emily,” Christina said a little formally. “How kind of you to call.”

  Emily mentally crossed her fingers for lying.

  “I wished to welcome you home, and to see how you were,” she said with a tone of concern. “After all, fortune has treated you most unkindly, I feel. It was a most wretched time for that poor girl to be discovered. It could hardly have been worse!”