by Anne Perry
“Do you think she did it?” Emily’s face was filled with unhappiness, deep lines across her brow.
“No.” Charlotte had been thinking about it ever since she heard of Delia’s death. She had to admit that it seemed strangely pointless. “I formed a very deep impression that she was a fighter,” she replied to Emily. “Someone who turned her eyes outward, not in on herself.”
“When we went to her former lady’s maid and probed about the past, I didn’t sense that Elsie Dimmock was deliberately evading anything,” Emily said. “Did you?”
“No. I’m trying to find a place to start looking to see if Delia really did kill herself,” Charlotte answered.
Emily bit her lip. “How likely is it?”
“Well, if it happened, very likely,” Charlotte said with a self-mocking smile. “It didn’t look as if Halberd was murdered either, to begin with. It seemed to be a rather ridiculous accident, the sort one doesn’t talk about, it was so…undignified: A much-respected friend of the Queen falls out of a rowing boat while alone on the Serpentine at night and drowns in water he could have easily stood up in. Nobody hangs themselves from a meat hook in their own kitchen by accident! The point is that neither of them looks like murder, but one of them definitely is, and maybe the other one too.”
“What did Thomas say, exactly? Or as close as you can remember?”
“That it looked as if she did it herself, but he is not at all sure it’s so. Kendrick said Halberd was having an affair with her, and it was pretty disgusting. He blackmailed her into it, and when she couldn’t take it anymore, she killed him.”
“Then why kill herself?” Emily asked reasonably.
“Because she was afraid of being found out?”
“But did Thomas even suspect her?”
“Not that I know of. But I don’t know very much.” Charlotte tried not to let the loneliness creep into her voice. Emily was watching her closely. She did not need words; Emily would catch even a change in tone, and understand it.
“Was Kendrick surprised when he knew she’d…done that to Halberd?” Emily asked.
“Yes, he was shocked…really horrified,” Charlotte replied, recalling the look of grief in Pitt’s face when he told her the very little he had. She even wondered if he would have told her at all, had she not known Delia personally. There were so many things he could not discuss with her. It would be wrong of her to try to persuade him to tell her more—a very selfish piece of cruelty. She wanted to know for her own sake, because she wished to be closer to him, to share and to be part of what mattered to him so much. But put like that, it sounded very childish. If she wished to share something with him apart from the daily details of life and home, then she should do something herself, and share that! Perhaps after all this was over, she would find something that mattered, a cause worth fighting for.
“If she didn’t murder Halberd, what was it that made her kill herself?” she said. “It couldn’t have been Thomas suspecting her of killing him. So it was something else. We need to find out what it was.”
“A different affair?” Emily suggested. “She does seem prone to them…”
“The only one we know of is with the Prince of Wales, and everybody knows of that,” Charlotte pointed out. “Halberd was what Kendrick said.”
“Then we should find out if it was true. I suppose Halberd’s death wasn’t suicide, was it?”
“I don’t know how you could hit yourself over the head hard enough to drown yourself!”
Emily’s face was filled with doubt. “Are we sure they are even connected at all?”
“Maybe not. Who can we speak to, if we do it carefully enough?”
Emily thought for a moment. “Well, Felicia Whyte. And Helena Lyndhurst. She will talk about anything royal for hours. If we approach it that way…”
“Distasteful as it is, we had better begin while it’s still a topic of interest and people remember things,” Charlotte replied. She despised gossip in other people, but it had its uses. Sometimes nothing else served.
“Felicia will be at the ladies’ club this afternoon.” Emily rose to her feet purposefully. “We had better go. I’ll find you something suitable to wear. Don’t waste time going home to change, we must make plans.”
—
“HOW CHARMING OF YOU to have brought your sister again,” Lady Felicia said as soon as she saw Charlotte half a step behind Emily. Felicia’s expression held just the right balance of warmth and amusement. Clearly she had forgotten nothing of the last meeting here. Charlotte liked her the better that she could find amusement in it.
“Thank you for making me welcome,” she replied in just the same blend of amusement and pleasure. They had no time to waste. This could be a long and awkward task. “I wish the circumstances were unclouded by tragedy.”
Felicia understood instantly what she was referring to. Surprisingly, there was a moment of real and deep regret in her eyes.
“Indeed. It is very sobering. One knows so much less than one imagines.”
“You are right, of course.” Charlotte said it with warmth that was purely tactical, but then immediately after she was surprised to find that she meant it. She did not know much about Felicia. The woman might have experienced her share of grief, of feeling frightened or lonely, or even betrayed.
It took another ten minutes before Emily managed to steer the conversation to Delia.
“You knew her far longer than we did,” she said with a sad little smile. “Were you surprised?” She seemed about to continue, but she was studying Felicia’s face as she spoke, and something in it stopped her from asking her next question.
“Yes, I was,” Felicia said quietly. “I can hardly believe it even now. Delia,” she spoke her name gently, “was more full of life, for good or ill, than anyone else I’ve known. I can’t imagine a despair so deep that she would”—she shook her head a little, quite sharply, as if to dislodge an image from her brain—“do something so hideously final.”
Charlotte decided to take the risk. “There are all sorts of rumors flying about. One is that she was having an affair with John Halberd, and they had a terrible quarrel about something…too awful to say…and that it was she who killed him! And she took her own life because she felt they were about to arrest her.” She bit her lip from guilt at speaking the words when she so despised loose and cruel gossip, as this was. But she had to see Felicia’s reaction to it.
She felt the blood hot in her face at the anger in Felicia’s eyes.
“Who says such a thing?” she demanded. “That’s…vile! And complete rubbish. Sir John may have been proud, and cold, and he knew a great deal more than he ought to have about almost everybody, but he was not the sort of man to have affairs of…a disgusting nature. He did not marry because the one woman he loved died tragically, in Africa, before they had a chance to marry. He never forgot her, or felt deeply about anyone else.” She said it quietly, so as not to be overheard by others, but the certainty of her emotion was unmistakable. “I don’t know that I liked him very much; he was too clever, too…self-controlled for my taste. He was one man you could not manipulate. I always felt somehow at a disadvantage in his company.” She gave a rueful and very slight smile. “As if he understood me far better than I would ever understand him. Couldn’t fault him for anything. And…” She took a deep breath, almost as if she was fighting for self-control.
Charlotte did not turn and look at Emily. She waited.
“And I happen to know that Delia had grown closer to him in the last few weeks of his life, but it was as an old acquaintance,” Felicia continued. “She knew him very slightly, so she said, when she was still married to Roland Darnley. And that was years ago. I would have known if there were anything like what you are suggesting.” The look of distaste in her face was profound.
Charlotte could not help defending herself, startled that she actually cared what Felicia thought of her.
“I didn’t believe it either,” she said. “I told the bus
ybody who said it something close to what I thought of her.”
“Close to?” Felicia asked.
“I couldn’t use the kind of language I wished to.”
Felicia’s expression softened. “I see. The temptation must have been intense, but perhaps best not to…Although I agree.”
“Jealousy destroys everything,” Emily said. “Like a disease that eats you inside.” She looked at Felicia. “You must have experienced a good deal of it, in your position.”
Felicia chose to take it as a compliment. “You are very perceptive. Yes, it is like acid, corroding everything it touches.”
It was Charlotte’s turn. She felt a moment of real sorrow for this woman who had so much, and yet so little. “In the end I hope this will not touch the memory of Delia, just rebound on the people who think such things, whether they said them aloud or not. I’m glad Delia knew Sir John in a pleasant way, and that she received some regard from him before he died.”
Felicia thought for a moment. “I rather think she was seeking his help for some purpose, although I have no idea what.” She furrowed her brow in an effort to recall a thought that eluded her. “I know she asked my husband as well. He was in Africa for many years, you know? But not the south, I don’t think. Or at least not much.”
Charlotte gave a little shiver. “You mention Africa, and I am touched with fear of another war.” She had begun the sentence intending a dramatic effect, but realized when she finished it that she really was afraid of another war. It was not that she knew so much about the implications, but she was concerned by the expression on Pitt’s face when it was spoken of, and the diligence with which he read more and more articles about it in the newspaper.
Felicia was watching her closely now. “Do you think Delia feared it as well?” she asked. “What would Sir John know?”
“You said he knew a great deal about all kinds of things. Perhaps he knew something interesting, or dangerous?” Charlotte suggested. As she was saying it, she realized it made more sense. Many people were worried, particularly those who had already lost sons, husbands, or brothers in the first war.
But what was Delia’s connection? Or was Charlotte building something out of nothing? “Would Delia Kendrick be concerned about war, or know anything more than any other casual reader of headlines?” she asked.
“That depends very much on the conversations she overheard,” Emily assured her.
“She might have,” Felicia said after a moment’s hesitation. “She was very inquisitive, even intrusive, in some ways. You know, at a glance her first husband was handsome, certainly in his own eyes, and not much use to anyone at all. He never appeared to have any interests apart from amusing himself. He wasn’t in business of any sort, and he had no land, unless it was something in the wilds of Scotland. Delia had the money, but he spent a great deal of it. Not that that is unusual, of course.” She seemed to be looking far away, as if remembering the past with more clarity than she had seen it at the time. “Once or twice I saw him act quite serious about things, and I know my husband had a degree of respect for him. And he is not one whose regard is earned easily.” She seemed to lose her thread of thought and fell silent.
“Poor Delia,” she said at last. “I wonder if we would all have been kinder if we knew what lay ahead for them.” She gave a shudder and the color faded from her face. “Or for ourselves.” She shrugged. “But then we would live in perpetual fear. Perhaps the only way to have courage is not to know. Tell me, Mrs. Pitt, are you serious about joining in the struggle for suffrage for women?”
Charlotte was caught completely off guard. “Why…yes. Yes, I am. It has to come one day. I am all for making it soon.”
Felicia smiled, but it was clearly an effort. “Then I must introduce you to several people I know.” She made a beckoning gesture. “Come.”
—
CHARLOTTE SAID NOTHING TO Pitt about any of Felicia Whyte’s comments, but she tried to persuade him, very much against his will, to attend a reception where Walter and Felicia Whyte would be.
They were sitting after dinner. It was past midsummer and the darkness was coming earlier. By nine the light was fading and color filled the sky.
“I haven’t time,” Pitt said, affecting regret. He did not wish to disappoint her, but clearly the last thing he wanted was to waste his time standing around making polite and totally artificial conversation. “I’m sorry,” he added.
How much should she tell him of what she and Emily were doing? As little as possible, of course, only what was necessary in order to find out more about Delia. She wanted to be honest. Pretense and manipulation were not the actions of friends. And yet sometimes one has to keep certain things secret, at least for a while.
“I’m learning to see Felicia Whyte in a different way,” she began tentatively.
Now he was listening, puzzled. “Why? She is as unlike you as possible.”
Was she so predictable? Should she tell the truth? If so, what part of it?
This was the moment that she told him the truth, or brushed it off and lost the opportunity forever.
The words came easily. “I don’t really like her, but I can imagine very clearly the fear she feels. She understands Delia Kendrick better than anyone else I know, and she has, for a long time. She spoke about Delia’s first husband, Darnley, and that Walter Whyte knew him and had a respect for him for which there did not appear to be any reason. And she was really angry about the gossip concerning Delia having had an affair with Halberd.” She stopped, looking at Pitt to see if he was listening.
She knew from his face that he was quite aware she was trying to find out something, the way she had when they were first married and he had been able to share his cases with her. She’d been so much better than he at understanding the rules and shibboleths of society, and had a very sharp instinct for other people’s emotions.
“What is it you are looking for?” he asked her bluntly.
“I don’t know. I think Delia was murdered, and for something she saw, or heard. She understood its meaning, where other people didn’t. Her death is connected with Halberd’s, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, but I believe so.” He was very serious. “However, if looking into it got her killed very brutally, whoever it is won’t hesitate to kill anyone else who seems to be following the same path. Don’t give yourself any illusions that you are safe. If this issue is as big as I fear, no one is.” He leaned forward. “Please, I can’t do my job if I spend half my time worrying about where you are and what rats’ nest you’ve just poked!” He said it with a slight smile, but only on his lips. It did not reach his eyes. He was totally serious.
“It’s all been just social conversation,” she began.
“Social conversation is all you need!” His voice was sharper.
She deliberately misunderstood him. “If Walter Whyte knows something about Delia, isn’t it worth finding out? You don’t believe she killed herself, do you?” She made the question very serious, because she knew he would not lie to her outright. He might refuse to answer, but that in itself was answer enough.
“No, I don’t think so,” he admitted. “And if she didn’t, then it was Kendrick who killed her, and Halberd almost certainly had some connection with it. What I don’t know is why, or how to prove it.”
“Then we must find out what she knew.” She said it as if it were simple, and she were out of danger here in this familiar room, in her own house. But Delia had been killed in her own home, either by her own hand or by someone else’s. “Thomas, we can’t let this happen and look the other way.” She said it more vehemently than she had intended to, but it was reality, not affected by drama.
“I don’t intend to leave it,” he promised. “It was the Queen who asked me to find out who killed Halberd, and why. I can’t leave it even if I wished to. And I don’t.”
Suddenly she had no breath. “The…the Queen? She asked you…I mean, in person? And you didn’t tell me?” An enormous space opene
d up in front of her, vast, lonely, things she couldn’t see and was not part of…and she couldn’t help him.
He touched her face very gently with the tips of his fingers.
“I can tell you all of it when it is over. If I had told you she sent for me, but not why, it would have been frightening and misleading. It’s not personal, it’s part of my duty. If Narraway had been here, she would have sent for him. But he isn’t.”
Now she understood why he had been so withdrawn, telling her almost nothing. He was carrying the weight of this alone, and it was far heavier than just the embarrassing death of a much-admired man. The Queen had sent for him! A wave of fierce pride swept over her, followed quickly by a very sober fear of what failing a job for the Queen would mean.
“You must let me help,” she said decisively. “I will be very careful, and always stay with other people. I promise. But I can ask questions that you can’t, and overhear conversations. Women notice far more than many men realize—”
“Which may be exactly why Delia was killed,” he interrupted her.
“Stop trying to shut me in the nursery,” she demanded angrily, because she felt useless and she wished so badly to help.
“I’m afraid for you!” He was exasperated, as if she still did not understand.
“Of course you are,” she retorted instantly. “And you think I’m not afraid for you? Or that I don’t love you? Or maybe you don’t care whether you solve every case or not?” Her words were sharper than she had intended them to be, but she meant them.
For once, he was speechless.
She felt guilty now. “Thomas, I love you. Please don’t try to stop me from being the little bit of help I can be. I can get closer to the truth of some things about Delia Kendrick than you can. I didn’t like her very much, but I understand her, and I’m sorry and angry at what happened to her. Oddly enough, so is Felicia Whyte, I think.”
“We’ll go to this party,” he agreed, although she could tell from the strain in his voice that it was unwillingly. “But you will stay with me.”
