by Anne Perry
Christina turned a very cold eye on her.
“Then it was a pity you chose that moment to go looking!”
“My dear,” Emily endeavored to look contrite, “how could I have imagined what I would find? I believed, like everyone else, that she had eloped with her lover, and was happily married somewhere—or married, at least. In truth I did not necessarily believe that it would be happy. These romantic things very seldom are.”
“So you said before. What on earth were you doing in that deserted garden anyway?”
“Just curiosity, I suppose,” Emily said idly, turning to admire the room, which indeed was handsome. “It was a romantic place—”
“A ruined garden, in the middle of winter!” Christina invested her voice with acid disbelief.
“It is not always the middle of winter, it only happens to be so now,” Emily said reasonably. “And the garden would have been far less ruined two years ago.”
“I fail to see your point,” Christina was decidedly cold.
“Why, when Helena met her lover there, of course!” Emily turned back. “What was she like? You must have known her. Was she very beautiful, very fascinating?”
“Not especially,” Christina affected some disdain. “She was pretty enough, in a rather anemic way; and she was certainly not witty, in fact I always thought her pleasant, but rather dull.”
“Oh dear,” Emily allowed her face to fall, although it cost some effort. Actually she was delighted, this was Christina’s genuine feeling, revealing as much about herself as about Helena Doran. “What a shame,” she continued. “She hardly sounds like the sort of woman to attract a romantic lover, unless he were a very callow sort. Unless, of course, she had hidden depths.”
“If she had, then they were very well hidden,” Christina snapped. “Nobody I knew ever found them!”
Emily had little compunction about being cruel.
”Not even Mr. Ross?” she inquired.
To her considerable surprise, Christina colored deeply.
“Alan is quite disillusioned about her. He no longer admires her.”
“Disillusioned?” Emily pressed the point.
“Well, she was hardly the innocent she pretended to be,” Christina said stingingly. “She met some lover in an empty garden, and obviously lay with him, or she would not have been with child! Surely that is enough to disillusion anybody!”
“Then it might become you to be exceedingly discreet yourself,” Emily observed. She did not like moral hypocrisy, and she did not particularly like Christina.
Christina’s color deepened and she glared at Emily with something akin to hatred. Was it conceivable that at this peculiar point she had actually learned some regard for Alan Ross? It seemed the obvious explanation. She was safely married and had thus acquired the respectability she needed if she were indeed to be pregnant, although that now appeared less and less probable. Unlike Charlotte, she was still wearing gowns with small waists, and her figure betrayed nothing. Yes, perhaps she really had developed an admiration for her husband. It was a bitter thing, but in Emily’s opinion, unless Christina were very much to alter her character, the better Mr. Ross were to know her, the less likely was he to return that feeling. Still, that was not something Emily could accomplish for her, nor had she any desire to attempt it.
She remained a little longer, speaking of Helena again but learning little except that Christina heartily disliked her. However, she could not tell whether that dislike predated Christina’s regard for Mr. Ross. Half an hour later she took her leave, her mind humming with new and interesting thoughts.
It was the morning after hearing from Emily about this episode, and more importantly about the conclusions she had drawn from it, that Charlotte decided she must go again to see Jemima, and regardless of temporary hurt, must this time convey some warning to her more specific of her danger. She also wished to see if she could learn something about Reggie Southeron that might tell her who really was blackmailing him; if indeed anyone was. Whatever the facts, for Jemima’s safety she must learn the reason behind the accusation.
To see Jemima alone, she must find her before classes began for the morning, which might well be nine o’clock. Therefore it was a little before quarter past eight, and barely light on a leaden, sleet-driven morning when she alighted from the hansom. The driver had mistakenly arrived at the wrong side of the square and refused to go round it because of the danger to his horse’s knees on the slimy cobbles where rotting leaves had piled from the night’s wind.
Charlotte did not argue. She had no wish that the animal should fall and be injured, not particularly for the cabbie’s expense, but for the creature’s own sake.
Accordingly she was left to walk, and rather than risk the same difficulty herself, she cut across the garden where there were no stones on which to slip, and where the night frost had hardened the ground to support her weight without sinking into the mud. At night she would not have gone alone, as she carried a memory of Cater Street, which would probably last as long as she lived; but it would be a desperate marauder indeed to be waiting around in this icy gray morning amid the spindly black branches and the falling vegetation.
She moved briskly because the cold bit into her flesh and the sleet on the wind stung her unprotected skin. She was watching where she put her feet, in order not to miss her step and fall over some fallen branch or slip in a patch of gathered slush. It was thus that she did not see the dark mound until she was almost upon it. It was not quite on the path, but close by the side of it, as if it had been on the path and blown from it. Surely no branch could have that mass? A feeling of disaster, a foreknowledge, came to her before she reached it and she stopped.
It was wet clothes: and in among the roots of last year’s Michaelmas daisies there was the head, hair dark in the wet, but it would have been fair normally: and the skin was white, as only the cold of death could make it.
She bent down but did not touch him. He was half on his side, one arm crumpled underneath, as if his hand were reaching for the knife that was buried to its hilt in his chest. She had only seen him once that she could recall, but she knew beyond question that it was Freddie Bolsover.
She stood up slowly and began to walk back into the wind again to search for a constable.
TEN
PITT WAS CALLED straight away, since anything in Callander Square was considered to be part of his case. Before half past nine he was kneeling on the still icebound earth by the body. A solitary constable stood guard over it. Nothing had been moved. After some protest, Charlotte had been sent home, although Pitt thought it was probably the cold that prevailed over her rather than any sense of obedience.
There was a police doctor with him. After he had stared his fill and the picture was etched on his mind, together they turned Freddie over to look at the wound. The knife was buried right to the hilt, the filigree handle holding no imprint of a hand at all.
Pitt moved the clothes fractionally.
“Single blow,” he remarked. “Very clean.”
“Could be luck,” the doctor said over his shoulder. “Doesn’t have to be skill.”
“What about strength?” Pitt asked.
“Strength?” The doctor considered for a moment. He reached down and moved the knife experimentally. “No bones cut,” he observed. “Clean between the ribs. Nothing but cartilage, and a little muscle; straight to the heart. Average adult could do it quite competently. Too high a wound for a short person. Blow seems to be a downward one, so your murderer was at least five foot six or seven, probably more.”
Pitt picked up one of Freddie’s hands.
“No gloves,” he said, frowning a little. “He must have come out in a hurry, and possibly not expected to be long. Coming to meet someone he knew, I should think.” He looked at the nails and knuckles. “Spotless. He can’t have made much of a struggle.”
“Caught by surprise,” the doctor replied. “Only knew for a second before unconsciousness overtook him.”
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“Surprise,” Pitt said slowly. “From the front. That means he knew his murderer, the surprise was that he should strike. Dr. Bolsover considered him safe, a friend.”
“Or acquaintance,” the doctor added.
“Does one go out to meet a mere acquaintance in the middle of the square, at night?”
“I didn’t say he was killed during the night,” the doctor shook his head. “Can’t tell. This weather, body would freeze in a very short time. Makes time of death a bit difficult.”
“Hardly risk murdering someone in the middle of the square in daylight,” Pitt said gently. “Too risky. Servants spend too much time near the windows, too big a chance someone would see you walking into the middle of the gardens. After dark, muffled up in scarf with collar up, which would be reasonable enough in this weather, as soon as you’re out of the arc of the gaslight you’re invisible. Could have gone up the steps to the front door, or into an areaway, off to get a cab—anything.”
“Quite,” the doctor agreed a little stiffly. “So take it they met after dark. Bit of an odd thing to do, wasn’t it? Go to meet someone in the pitch dark in a frozen waste like this? Could fall and break your neck, never mind being stabbed. Hardly see a foot in front of you.”
“Raises a lot of questions in the mind, doesn’t it?” Pitt stared down at the body again.
The doctor grunted.
“Must have been wishing to discuss something very urgent, and very private indeed.”
“Or have an intent to murder,” Pitt said softly.
The doctor said nothing.
Pitt climbed to his feet, a little stiff in the bitter cold.
“It occurs to me that I have rather a lot to ask Mr. Reggie Southeron. See to having Bolsover taken to the morgue, will you? You’d better do your post mortem thoroughly, in spite of the obvious. I don’t believe there will be anything else, but it’s always possible.”
The doctor gave him a sour look, and stumped back toward the constable, slapping his hands together to get the circulation moving again.
Pitt did not want to give Reggie any advance warning this time. He went straight to the front door and when the footman answered, announced that he wished to see Mr. Southeron with all possible speed. He imagined that on a bitter morning like this Reggie would not have risen before nine, and would certainly not have breakfasted and been ready to depart for the city before ten.
He was correct. Reggie was still at the table, and about to expostulate at the footman’s unseemly interruption, and to tell him rather sharply that the police could wait, when he glanced past the man’s sober figure to see the enormous caped figure of Pitt who had followed him in; precisely to avoid being dismissed in such a fashion.
“Really!” Reggie glared at him. “I appreciate that you have a difficult job to do, but a little unpleasantness in the square does not absolve you from all need to follow the ordinary dictates of good manners. I shall see you when I have finished my breakfast! You may wait until then in the morning room, if you wish.”
Pitt eyed the footman, and found to his satisfaction that the man’s fear of the police was greater than his fear of his employer. He retreated like water going down a sink, flowing outward with a somewhat circular motion and disappearing down the passage.
“The matter is too urgent to admit of delay,” Pitt said firmly. “Dr. Bolsover has been murdered.”
Reggie stared at him glassily.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Dr. Bolsover has been murdered,” Pitt repeated. “His body was found this morning, at a few minutes after eight o’clock.”
“Good God!” Reggie dropped his fork laden with food and it fell with a clatter, upsetting his knife and sliding to the floor, taking bacon and sausage with it. “Good God,” he said again. “What a frightful thing.”
“Yes,” Pitt agreed, watching him closely. Did he really have the wit to act so well? He seemed stupefied with shock. “Murder is always frightful,” he went on. “One way and another. Of course many people who are murdered rather bring it upon themselves.”
“What in blazes do you mean?” Reggie’s heavy face flushed scarlet. “I call that damned impertinent! Damned bad taste! Poor old Freddie lying dead somewhere, and you stand there saying he deserved it!”
“No,” Pitt corrected carefully. “You leaped to that conclusion. What I said was that some people who are murdered bring it upon themselves; blackmailers, and so on,” he leaned a little forward, watching Reggie’s face minutely. He saw what he was looking for, the ebb of color, the nervous spasm of muscles.
“Blackmailers?” Reggie repeated hoarsely, his eyes unfocused like a stuffed doll’s.
“Yes,” Pitt pulled up a chair and sat down. “Blackmailers rather often get murdered. Victim sees it as his only way out. Blackmailers don’t seem to realize when they’ve reached the critical point. They press too far.” He opened his hands wide to express an explosion, an eruption.
Reggie swallowed convulsively, his eyes fixed on Pitt as if mesmerized. He seemed to be unable to speak.
Pitt gambled.
“That is what happened to Dr. Bolsover, isn’t it, sir?”
“Dr.—Bolsover—?”
“Yes. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”
“No—no! I told you! It—it was Jemima, the governess. I said that to you before.”
“So you did: you said that the governess was blackmailing you over the fact that you have had a passing affair with your parlormaid. I wouldn’t have thought that was worth paying for, sir, since I knew about it, the servants knew, I would be surprised if the neighbors had not guessed; and I imagine your wife also knows, even if she prefers to pretend that she does not.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Reggie tried to look affronted.
“No more than I say, sir: that I find it hard to believe that you would submit to blackmail over something which is a subject of general knowledge, even though it is not mentioned; and which is a little sordid, but not by any means an infrequent offense; and hardly a crime.”
“I—I told you—of course it is not a crime! But right now it could be misunderstood! People could think—”
“You mean the police could think—?” Pitt raised his eyebrows sardonically.
A tide of color swept up Reggie’s face as he realized his lie was ridiculous. Pitt could almost see his brain racing. Should he catch him now, in panic, or wait till his tongue betrayed him further?
“Er—” Reggie tried to fill in until he invented something, “—well—yes, it does sound—”
“A bit thin,” Pitt finished for him. “Suppose you tell me the truth?”
“Er—truth!”
“Yes, sir. Why was Dr. Bolsover really blackmailing you?”
“I—” Reggie seemed frozen.
“If I have to ask others in order to find out, it will be a lot more uncomfortable for you,” Pitt pointed out. “If you tell me, providing there is no crime involved, I shall be as discreet as I can. Time is important. We have a murderer somewhere in this square: and he may not be finished yet!”
“Oh God!”
“Why was Dr. Bolsover blackmailing you, Mr. Southeron?”
Reggie gasped and swallowed.
“Another affair I had.” His eyes were hot, uncomfortable, searching somewhere over Pitt’s shoulder. “Woman was married. Husband important fellow. Could do me a spot of damage, if he found out. You understand?”
Pitt looked at him for a long moment. He was lying.
“How did the governess ever come to know about it?” he asked.
“What?” Reggie’s head jerked up. “Oh. Er—”
“You said she was blackmailing you too,” Pitt reminded him. “Would you like to amend that now?”
Suddenly Reggie’s eyes cleared.
“No! No, she was. Very greedy young woman. That must be why Freddie was killed! Yes, it all fits in, don’t you see?” He sat up a little. “They must have quarreled over the money! She wanted more
than her share, he refused, and she killed him. Makes sense: all fits together!”
“How did the governess come to know of this affair of yours? Did you have the woman here?”
“Good God, of course not! What on earth do you think I am?”
“Then how did she know, sir?”
“I don’t know! Freddie must have said something!”
“Why on earth should he do that? Why share his spoils unnecessarily? Seems an unlikely thing to do.”
“How in hell should I know?” Reggie demanded furiously.
“Perhaps he was having an affair with her, and he told her in a moment of boasting, or something! We’ll never know now. Poor swine is dead.”
“The governess isn’t.”
“Well, you can hardly expect her to tell you the truth!” There was a rising note in Reggie’s voice that sounded uncommonly like panic.
Pitt gambled again.
“I think it sounds more likely to me, sir, that this woman you had an affair with wasn’t the wife of some powerful man at all, but another maid.”
Reggie’s eyes glinted.
“As you’ve just pointed out, Inspector; it would hardly be worth anything to me to pay for silence over something as trifling as that!”
“Not if that’s all there was to it,” Pitt agreed with a small smile, his eyes fixed on Reggie’s face unblinkingly. “But what if there were more to it, a child, say?”
Reggie went pasty white. For a moment it occurred to Pitt that he might have a fit.
“One of your parlormaids died, didn’t she?” Pitt asked slowly, making each word weigh heavily.
Reggie gagged for breath.
“You didn’t murder her, did you, Mr. Southeron?” Pitt asked.
“God! Oh God! No, I didn’t. She died. Freddie was with her. We called him in. Had to. That’s how he knew.”
“What did she die of?”
“I—I don’t know!”
“Do I have to ask the female staff?” Pitt said softly.
