Farriers' Lane

by Anne Perry

  Charlotte took the omnibus to Cater Street and arrived shortly after ten o’clock, not a suitable time for calling. She found Caroline busy sorting linen for the housemaid, and Grandmama still not emerged from her bedroom, where she was customarily served her breakfast on a tray.

  “Good morning!” Caroline said with surprise and a slight frown of concern. She was dressed in plain brown stuff, with no trimmings but a cotton lace collar, and her hair wound loosely and with no fashionable curls or braids. She looked younger than usual, and prettier. Charlotte had not seen her so informally for several years, and she was taken aback by how comely she looked, how good her features and her skin. Without the additions of fashion, expensive clothes and elaborate hair she was more individual, softer, less like every other woman in society of middle years. Words rose to her lips to say so, then she thought perhaps it would be tactless.

  “Good morning, Mama,” she said cheerfully. “You look very well.”

  “I am.” Caroline’s brow creased. “What brings you here so early? Has Thomas learned something about the case?”

  “I don’t think so. If he has, he hasn’t told me.” Charlotte automatically took the other end of the bedsheet Caroline was examining and held it up, saw that it needed no mending, and helped her fold it again. “I came because I think it is time we learned more ourselves, don’t you?”

  “Indeed,” Caroline agreed immediately, so immediately that Charlotte wondered if it were something she had been thinking about herself, or if it were simply another opportunity to take action, and probably to meet Joshua Fielding again.

  “How much do we really know about the people involved?” she said, taking a pillowcase and trying to be tactful.

  “You mean their actions on the night of the murder?” Caroline asked, not looking at Charlotte but at the pile of linen as yet unexamined.

  “Well, that would do for a start,” Charlotte said with less than enthusiasm. This was going to be difficult. “But we need to know a great deal more about their personalities than I do, at least. Perhaps you know more?”

  “Yes—I should imagine so.” Caroline explored the embroidery at the edge of the pillowcases, looking for places where it was weak and coming away from the fabric.

  Charlotte hated herself for being so devious. “What about Tamar Macaulay? Do you know who is the father of her child?”

  Caroline drew in a breath to expostulate, then let it out again slowly as the necessity for realism overtook her.

  “Kingsley Blaine, I believe. She really did care for him, you know. It was not a quick romance, or a matter of seeking the presents he could give her.”

  “Did he give her many presents?”

  “No—no, I don’t think so.”

  “Isn’t it possible someone else was in love with her also, and was sufficiently jealous of Kingsley Blaine that he might have killed him?”

  Caroline looked up, her face pink, her eyes defensive. “You mean Joshua, don’t you?”

  “I mean anyone that could apply to,” Charlotte said as levelly as she could. “Does that mean Joshua?”

  “He was in love with her once,” Caroline said with a gulp, looking at the linen again. She snapped a pillowcase sharply, and it slipped out of her fingers. “Drat!” she said angrily.

  “Mama, don’t you think we should find out a little more? After all, that’s not surprising, is it? If people are attractive, and see each other a great deal, it is most probable they will have feelings for each other, at least for a while? Perhaps it passes, and then they may find the person who is right, not merely familiar. That doesn’t mean that Joshua still felt anything for her afterwards except a friendly affection.”

  “Do you think so?” Caroline bent and picked up the pillowcase, keeping her eyes down. “Yes—yes, I suppose so. Of course you are right. We do need to know more. I shall lose my wits staying here wondering. But how can we do it without being appallingly intrusive?” She frowned, regarding Charlotte anxiously.

  Grandmama appeared in the doorway, her stick hitting the lintel sharply. They were startled and stepped apart instantly. Neither of them had heard her footsteps.

  “You are appallingly intrusive,” she said to Caroline. “Which is socially unforgivable, as you must be aware! Goodness knows, I have told you so often enough. But immeasurably worse than that, you are giving the absurd impression that you are in love with this—this—actor!” She snorted. “It is not only ludicrous, it is disgusting! The man is half your age—and he is a Jew! You seem to have lost your wits. Good morning, Charlotte. What are you doing here? You didn’t come to fold the laundry.”

  Caroline gulped, her breast rising and falling as she strove to control herself.

  Charlotte opened her mouth to retort, and then thought it would be wiser to allow Caroline to defend herself; otherwise Grandmama would think she was unable to. Then when Charlotte was gone, Caroline would be even more vulnerable.

  “You are the only person who thinks such a thing.” Caroline stared at Grandmama, her cheeks flooded with hot color. “And that is because you have a cruel and quite mistaken mind.”

  “Indeed?” Grandmama said with exquisite sarcasm. “You are capering around in extravagant new clothes, to Pimlico, of all places. Nobody goes to Pimlico! Why should they?” She leaned heavily on her black stick, her face tight. “Simply because suddenly you have nothing better to do? I could most assuredly find you something. Yesterday’s dinner was totally unplanned. I don’t know what Cook was thinking of. Blancmange, at this time of the year? And artichokes! Ridiculous! And what, may I ask, could you possibly want in Pimlico?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with early artichokes,” Caroline replied. “They are delicious.”

  “Artichokes?” Grandmama banged her stick on the floor. “What have artichokes to do with anything? As I have just said, you are pursuing a man young enough to marry your daughter—and a Jew, to boot. Do you drink, Caroline?”

  “No, I do not, Mama-in-law,” Caroline replied, her face stiff and growing paler. “You appear to have forgotten, but I was in the theater when Judge Stafford died, and I was quite naturally interested in seeing that justice is done and there is no unnecessary pain caused to innocent persons.”

  “Balderdash!” Grandmama said fiercely. “You are besotted on that wretched poseur. On the stage. For heaven’s sake, what next?”

  Silently Charlotte folded the linen and slid it onto the shelf.

  “You seem to have forgotten your own interest in the murder in Highgate,” Caroline attacked the old lady. “You forced the acquaintance of Celeste and Angeline—”

  “I did not!” Grandmama exploded with indignation, her voice quivering with offense. “I merely went to offer them my condolences. I had known them half my life.”

  “You went out of curiosity,” Caroline replied with a harsh thread of amusement. “You hadn’t seen or spoken to them in thirty years.”

  They both ignored Charlotte totally.

  “They were hardly actresses cavorting about on the public stage.” Grandmama took up the fight in earnest. “They were the maiden daughters of a bishop. One can hardly be more respectable than that. And I never chased after a man in my life. Let alone one half my age!”

  Caroline lost her temper.

  “That is your misfortune,” she snapped, shoving the pile of pillowslips across the shelf. “Perhaps if you had ever met anyone as interesting, charming and totally full of wit and imagination as Joshua is, then you wouldn’t be the bitter old woman you are now—with no pleasure left except making other people miserable. And I shall go to Pimlico as often as I choose.” She smoothed down her skirts sharply and stood very straight. “In fact Charlotte and I are off there now—not to see Mr. Fielding, but to find out more about who killed Kingsley Blaine—and why!” And with that statement she swept past Grandmama, leaving both Charlotte and the old lady staring after her.

  Grandmama swung around to Charlotte, glaring at her.

  “I hold you t
o blame for this. If you hadn’t married a policeman, and taken to meddling in disgusting matters which no decent woman would even have heard about—let alone concerned herself with—then your mother wouldn’t be taking leave of her senses now and behaving like this.”

  “We cannot take you this time, Grandmama, no matter what you say.” Charlotte smiled at her tightly, looking straight into her black eyes. “The subject is far too delicate. I am sorry.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” the old lady snapped. “Why on earth should I wish to go to Pimlico?”

  “For the same reason you went to see Celeste and Angeline, of course,” Charlotte replied. “To indulge your curiosity.”

  For a moment the old lady was so angry she was robbed of words.

  Charlotte smiled sweetly and turned around and went after her mother out across the landing and downstairs.

  “Charlotte.” The old lady’s voice followed after her, sharp and plaintive. “Charlotte. How dare you speak to me like that! Come back here! Do you hear me? Charlotte!”

  Charlotte ran down the last few steps and caught up with Caroline.

  “Are we going to Pimlico?” she said quietly.

  “Of course,” Caroline replied, looking around for her cloak. “There’s nowhere else we can begin.”

  “Are you sure that is wise? There is no point in going simply to ask the same questions again.”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Caroline said urgently. “We can see Clio Farber at this time of day. Theater people rise late, compared with most, take a good luncheon, which they call dinner, and rehearse in the afternoon.” Charlotte was about to say something, but Caroline hurried on. “She already understands the situation; she may have found a way in which we can meet this Devlin O’Neil. He is the only one we know of who is a definite suspect. That is the right word, isn’t it?”

  “Yes—yes, it is.” Charlotte reached for the cloak and held it while Caroline put it over her shoulders. She put her own coat back on again. “How do you know Miss Farber is aware of the situation?”

  “Maddock!” Caroline called out. “Maddock! Will you please call the carriage for me? No—no, on second thought don’t bother. I will take a hansom.” She glanced up towards the landing where the grim figure of the old lady was staring down the stairs, her stick striking at the banisters.

  “Caroline,” she said loudly. “Caroline!”

  “I am going out,” Caroline replied, grasping Charlotte by the arm. “Come, Charlotte. We cannot waste time, or we shall miss them.”

  “You’re going to run about after that actor again?” Grandmama called from halfway down the stairs. “That Jew!”

  Caroline turned around in the front doorway. “No, Mama-in-law, I am going to see Miss Farber. Please don’t make an exhibition of yourself by raising your voice in front of the servants. I shall be out for luncheon.” And without waiting for anything further, she gripped Charlotte by the arm again and went outside, leaving Maddock to close the door behind her.

  For ten minutes they walked briskly along the pavement, past acquaintances to whom Caroline nodded briefly with a word of greeting.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ellison.” A large lady in green with a fur tippet stood squarely in the way, and it was impossible to continue without speaking. “How are you?” she demanded.

  They were obliged to stop.

  “In excellent health, thank you, Mrs. Parkin,” Caroline replied. “And you?”

  “All things considered, not badly, thank you.” Mrs. Parkin stared at Charlotte enquiringly.

  Caroline had no option but to outstare her.

  “May I present my daughter, Mrs. Pitt. Mrs. Parkin.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Parkin,” Charlotte said obediently.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.” Mrs. Parkin smiled, her eyes going up and down Charlotte’s rather plain coat and second-season boots. “I don’t believe we have met before?” She made it a question.

  Charlotte smiled back, brightly and just as blandly.

  “I am sure we have not, Mrs. Parkin. I should have remembered.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Parkin was momentarily lost for words. The reply was not what she had planned. “How kind of you. Do you live in this area?”

  Charlotte smiled even more brightly. “Not now, but of course I used to.” Seeing the intent expression in Mrs. Parkin’s face, and knowing the interrogation would continue, she carried the war into the enemy’s camp. “Have you lived here long yourself, Mrs. Parkin?”

  Mrs. Parkin was startled. She had considered herself in charge of the conversation, and all she had looked for were polite and truthful answers as befitted a socially junior woman. She regarded Charlotte’s eagerly interested face with displeasure.

  “Some five years, Mrs. Pitt.”

  “Indeed,” Charlotte said quickly, before Mrs. Parkin could continue. “Most agreeable, don’t you find? I know Mama does. I do hope you have a pleasant day. I think the weather is going to improve, don’t you? Do you require a hansom?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Parkin said stiffly.

  “Then you will forgive us if we take that one.” Charlotte gestured vaguely. “We have an appointment some distance away. So very pleasant to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Parkin.” And with that she took Caroline’s arm firmly and hurried along the pavement, leaving Mrs. Parkin standing staring after them with her mouth open and her breath drawn in to speak.

  Caroline did not know whether to laugh or be horrified. She was torn between natural instinct and a lifetime of training. Instinct won and she giggled happily as they walked with undignified haste towards a hansom cab waiting by the curb.

  They alighted in Pimlico and were admitted to the Passmores’ huge parlor. Joshua Fielding, Tamar Macaulay and several other people were sitting in large cane chairs, involved in animated conversation. Scripts lay about on table tops and several on the floor in piles. Miranda Passmore sat on a heap of cushions; this time the door had been opened by a youth with curly hair, bearing a strong resemblance to her.

  As soon as Caroline and Charlotte came in, Joshua rose to his feet and welcomed them. Charlotte saw with remarkably mixed emotions the instant pleasure in his face and a gentleness in him unique in his glance towards Caroline. If it were possible he cared for her more than mere friendship, or a gratitude that she was so concerned for his welfare, then Caroline was not so wildly vulnerable, not open to such a humiliating rejection. That brought a rush of warmth to Charlotte and smoothed away some of her own fear.

  And yet if he did have such feeling, it would only lead to disaster. At best a sad parting, because it was impossible—or at worst an affaire, with all the heartbreak when it ended, when he grew tired of her, or she came to her senses. And the ever-present risk of the most fearful scandal. Grandmama had no gentleness in her, no tenderness, but her fears were not ill founded. Society did not forgive. It was full of women like Mrs. Parkin with her prying questions and intrusive, knowing eyes. Those who broke the rules were never permitted to return. There would be no place for Caroline after that.

  Joshua was speaking to Charlotte, and she had not heard a word he had said. He was standing in front of her smiling, with a shadow of anxiety in his eyes. He had a remarkably mobile and expressive face, full of possibilities for humor, passion, pain and wry, relentless self-knowledge. It would be terribly difficult not to like him, however much the thought of him with Caroline disturbed her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “My mind was woolgathering.”

  “I doubt it,” he said candidly. “I think you are concerned for this wretched affair, most generously on our behalf, and you are wondering what we can do next that would be of any use. Am I not right?”

  She seized the chance. “Yes, indeed you are,” she lied, meeting his eyes and forcing herself to smile back. “I think it is time we made the acquaintance of Mr. Devlin O’Neil, if Miss Farber is able to help us.”

  He turned and beckoned to a young woman in her
, early thirties, but casually dressed in something like an artist’s smock. Her fair hair was wildly curly and she had not bothered to dress it except to pile it on her head and secure it with a couple of pins and a length of bright red fabric. It was quite beautiful, and flattered her wide-cheekboned face with blue eyes and broad, soft mouth. It was a face Charlotte liked immediately. As soon as the most perfunctory introductions were made, and acknowledgment of the others in the room, she turned to Clio.

  “Has Mr. Fielding spoken to you of our concern?” Concern was such a tame word, but she could think of no better—at least until she knew more of the situation.

  “Oh yes,” Clio replied quickly. “And I am so glad you are going to do something! We none of us believed it was Aaron. We simply had no idea how to succeed in making anyone else accept that. Poor Tamar has struggled alone for all these years. It is wonderful to have someone really capable with her now.”

  Charlotte opened her mouth to say that she was not really so very capable, then changed her mind. It would be most unhelpful, even if true. It would discourage Tamar and make Clio Farber less likely to trust her.

  “Well, we need all the help you can find,” she said instead. “You see, it all depends on being able to observe people when they are unaware you have any interest in the matter at all.”

  “Oh yes, I see that,” Clio agreed. “Tamar explained it quite clearly. I shall contrive a situation where you can meet Kathleen O’Neil in such a way it will all look most natural. I am good at that.” Her face shadowed and she moved very slightly so that her back was towards the others in the room.

  “I don’t know if Joshua told you,” she went on, “but I am … acquainted”—she hesitated delicately, but there was nothing sly in her, or intending innuendo—“with Judge Oswyn, who sat on the appeal.” Her face shadowed. “With poor Judge Stafford.”

  “Did he know Judge Stafford?” Charlotte asked. “I mean personally?”

  Clio’s face was thoughtful, her answer quick, as if she had already considered the question and it troubled her. “Of course they were acquainted, but how much it was personal rather than simply professional I do not know. I feel it may have been. Granville, that is, Judge Oswyn, seemed to have some deep feeling about him. I rather think it was a kind of embarrassment. Or perhaps that is not quite right—maybe a sort of anger mixed with discomfort. But when I asked him why, he was evasive, which is most unlike him.”