Rutland Place tp-5

by Anne Perry

  "Yes, ma'am." The girl withdrew gratefully, without waiting for Eloise to confirm the command.

  Charlotte stood for a moment longer, then guided Eloise to the sofa and laid her on it, kneeling beside her.

  "Do you not think you wouJd be better to lie down for a while?" she suggested. "Perhaps a dish of tea, or an herbal tisane?"

  "If you wish." Eloise obeyed because she had no will to argue.

  Charlotte hesitated, still not sure if there was anything else she could do, then accepted at last that it was futile and went to the door.

  "Charlotte!"

  She turned. For the first time there was expression in Eloise's face, even her eyes.

  "Thank you. You have been kind. I may not appear as if I value it, but I do. You are right. Perhaps I shall drink something, and sleep for a while. I feel very tired."

  Charlotte felt a surge of relief, as if hard knots inside her had slipped loose.

  "I'll tell your maid to see that no one else is admitted for today."

  "Thank you."

  After delivering the directions to the maid and the footman, Charlotte went into the withdrawing room where Inigo Charrington stood by the mantelshelf, his face creased with anxiety, his coat still over his arm as if he were unsure whether to stay or go.

  "Is she all right?" he said without any pretense at formality.

  "No," Charlotte replied with equal honesty. "No, she isn't, but I don't know of anything else we can do to help."

  "Should you have left her?" Inigo's face creased. "The last thing I want is for my calling to cause further distress."

  "I sent the maid for a dish of tisane. Then I think she will rest for a time. Sleep will not alter the facts; she will still have to face them when she awakes, but she may have a little more strength for it."

  "It's absolutely bloody!" he said with sudden anger. "First poor Mina, and now this!"

  Charlotte was appalled to hear herself reply, "And your own sister-"

  "What?" His quicksilver face was blank, almost comically empty.

  This time embarrassment made her hold her tongue.

  "Oh." Then he realized what she had said. "Oh yes. You mean Ottilie."

  She wanted to apologize, to undo her intrusion, but she knew how close it could lie to Mina's death, and murder. And she had learned only too dreadfully how one murder could beget another- and another. Mina was not necessarily the last victim.

  "I believe her death was very sudden-I mean, quite unexpected. It must have been a devastating shock." She had meant to be subtle, and ended by sounding crass.

  "Unexpected?" Again he repeated her words. "Mrs. Pitt! Of course, how stupid of me. The policeman! But why the interest in Ottilie? She was eccentric, to put it at its mildest, but she certainly never harmed anyone-least of all Mina."

  "That is the third time someone has said that she was eccentric," Charlotte said thoughtfully. "Was she really so very unusual?"

  "Oh yes." He smiled at memory. "She did some appalling things. Once she got up on the dining table at dinner and sang a bawdy song. I thought Papa would die of it. Thank God no one else was there but the family, and one or two of my friends." His eyes were alight, gleaming with the memory, laughter and softness in them.

  "Embarrassing, if it were to be repeated." Charlotte was confused by him; surely no man could act affection so perfectly and be lying? "One cannot afford a great deal of that if one is to remain in Society."

  His face was bright, with mockery in it, but no malice, as if he himself were part of the joke.

  "You know, Mrs. Pitt, I have the strongest feeling that in spite of your afternoon-tea behavior, you are a good deal more your husband's wife than your mother's daughter! You think we quietly suppressed Ottilie somewhere, don't you? Perhaps impris shy;oned her in our country house, locked in a disused wing, with!an old family retainer to guard her?"

  Charlotte felt the crimson heat flood up her face. She was blundering, and yet she must not stop; there would not be another chance.

  "Actually, I thought you might have murdered her," she said tartly, furious with herself for her clumsiness. "And perhaps Mina knew it? She was a Peeping Tom, you know. And maybe a thief as well!"

  His eyes opened wide in surprise.

  "A Peeping Tom, yes, but a thief? Whatever gave you that idea?"

  "Several things have gone missing in Rutland Place recently." She could still feel the scarlet under her skin. "None of them arc very valuable of themselves, but at least one holds a secret which would be most embarrassing if it were to become known. Per shy;haps Mina was the thief, and she was killed to retrieve whatever it was?"

  "No," he said with conviction. "Whatever she was killed for, it had nothing to do with the thefts. Anyhow, most of the things have been returned. They always are."

  She stared at him. "Returned? How do you know?"

  He took a long, slow breath. "I do. Just accept that. I have seen the things. Ask the people who lost them, they'll tell you."

  "My mother lost something. She did not say she has it back."

  "Presumably it was the article containing the embarrassing secret you spoke of, since you are aware of it. Maybe she was afraid you would think she stole it back. You have a highly suspicious mind, Mrs. Pitt!"

  "I would hardly suspect my own mother of-" She stopped.

  "Killing Mina?" he finished for her. "Perhaps not-but would the police be so well-disposed?"

  "Where did Ottilie die? It was not at your country house, as you said."

  "Oh." For several minutes he remained silent, standing with one foot on the hearth, and she waited. "Tell you what," he said at last. "Come with me and I'll show you!"

  She exploded in frustration. "Don't be ridiculous! If it is something so secret-"

  "Bring your own carriage," he interrupted. "And your own footman if you like."

  "Policemen do not have carriages!" she snapped. "Or footmen!".

  "No, I suppose they don't. Sorry. Bring your mother's. I'll prove to you we didn't murder Ottilie."

  Her mind raced to find a way of accepting that was not wildly foolish. If he or his family had killed Ottilie, and then Mina, they would not balk at killing her just as easily. Yet perhaps she was being offered the solution. And if the stolen articles had really been returned, how did Inigo Charrington know it? Why had Caroline not told her? Anyway, why would a thief take them and then return them? It made no sense-unless it was involved with the murder? Had Mina been the thief, and had the murderer retrieved all the stolen things to mask the recovery of the one thing that would have damned him?

  Suddenly the solution came to her. Emily would never permit such an opportunity to escape, and she could provide the means for Charlotte to accept.

  "I shall take my sister's carriage," she replied with an assur shy;ance she hoped she could justify. "And naturally I shall tell her for what purpose, and who is to accompany me."

  "Excellent! Have you considered joining the police force yourself?"

  "Don't be impertinent!" she said acidly, but inside excite shy;ment was boiling up.

  He smiled. "I think you would enjoy it enormously. Actually, 1 think I might myself. I shall collect you at six o'clock. What you are wearing will be adequate, if you take off that thing from the neck."

  "At six o'clock?" She was startled. "Why not now?"

  "Because it is barely half past three, and far too early."

  She did not understand, but at least by six o'clock she would have had opportunity to make some arrangement with Emily, both to borrow the carriage and to be perfectly sure that Inigo Charrington did not imagine he could harm her in any way and remain at liberty himself.

  When she arrived at her mother's house and explained the matter to her sister-out of Caroline's hearing, of course- Emily was aghast. Her immediate reaction was that Inigo had undoubtedly murdered his sister and now intended to do away with Charlotte as well.

  "He would hardly be so foolish," Charlotte replied, trying to weight her voice
with conviction. "After all, if anything were to happen to me when you all know I am in his company, then he would damn himself completely. I believe he really is going to tell me how Ottilie died and show me some proof of it. I certainly will not believe it without proof!"

  "Then I shall come with you," Emily said instantly.

  It was only with difficulty that Charlotte succeeded in persuad shy;ing her that her presence might risk the whole venture. If the nature of Ottilie's death had been such that the family was prepared to have it known, then Pitt would have discovered it in his own attempts. She could think of no satisfactory reason why Inigo was now willing to tell her, except that perhaps fear of the still greater danger of being suspected of murder hung over them. But if it were a matter of desperate embarrassment, even of humiliation, then the fewer people who were aware of it the easier for the family. And also since Charlotte was not of their own social circle, perhaps they would not suffer so acutely for her knowing the truth.

  Emily accepted the argument with reluctance, but she was obliged to concede its validity. At least she made no protest about lending both her carriage and her footman. She would take the use of her mother's to return to her home.

  Inigo called at six o'clock precisely, dressed in an elegant coat of darkest green with a fine top hat.

  It was on the tip of Charlotte's tongue to ask him where on earth they might be going, but she bit back the words, remember shy;ing the need for discretion. Caroline had already delivered her shy;self of her opinion of Charlotte's behavior, and she forbore expressing it again in front of Inigo.

  Inside the carriage he made sure that she was comfortable, then offered no further remark, but sat silent, a smile curving his mouth, while they drove through gaslit streets Charlotte had not seen before, seemingly toward the heart of the city.

  She lost track of time. They turned endless corners till her sense of direction, which had never been good, vanished, and | when at last they pulled up she could not have made even a guess where they were.

  Inigo climbed out and handed her down. The lamps were brilliant in the street, and some on the front of a large building were of different colors. j

  "Electric," he said cheerfully. "There are quite a few of them i now."

  She stared around her. There was music coming from somewhere, and a dozen or more people on the pavement, mostly men, some of whom were in evening dress.

  "Where are we?" she asked in bewilderment. "Where is this?"

  "It is a music hall, my dear," he said with a sudden, flashing smile. "One of the best. Ada Church is singing here tonight, and she'll pack 'em in." I

  "A music hall!" Charlotte was stunned. She had been expect- ' ing a cemetery, a clinic, or even a madhouse-but a music hall! It was preposterous-like a black farce.

  "Come on." He took her arm and pushed her toward the doorway. She thought of resisting; she was both frightened and intensely curious. She had heard of Ada Church-she was said to be very handsome, and had one of the best music hall acts.

  Even Pitt had once commented that she had beautiful legs-of all things! He had smiled as he said it, and she had recognized that he was teasing, so she had refrained from asking him how he knew!

  "Good evening, Mr. Charrington, sir." The doorman raised his hand in a little salute, although his eyes registered surprise at Charlotte. "Good to see you again, sir."

  "You've been here before!" Charlotte accused him. "And often!"

  "Oh yes."

  She stopped, pulling against his arm. "And you have the impertinence to bring me with you! I know I am a policeman's wife, but I do not frequent places like this! I'll have you remem shy;ber that there are a great many things men may do and women may not! Now you have had your rather cheap joke. I accept that it was tasteless and cruel of me to ask what happened to your sister. You have your revenge, and my apologies. Now please take me home!"

  He held on to her arm tightly, too tightly for her to break away.

  "Don't be so pompous," he said quietly. "You aren't any good at it. You wanted to know what happened to Ottilie. I'm going to tell you, and prove it. Now stop making a scene and come in. You'll probably even enjoy it, if you let yourself. And if you don't want to be seen here, then don't stand in the entranceway where everybody can look at you making a specta shy;cle of yourself!"

  His logic was irrefutable. She jerked her head in the air and sailed in on his arm, looking neither right nor left, and permitted him to seat her at one of the numerous tables in the center of the floor. She was dimly aware of tiers of boxes and balconies, like a theater, of a brilliantly lit stage, of gaudy colors, flounced dresses low off the shoulders, and the black and white of rich men's clothes mixed with the duller browns of those less comfortable, and even the checks of men come from the local streets. Waiters wove their way through the throng, glasses sparkled as they were raised and lowered, and all the time there was the murmur of voices and the lilt of music.

  Inigo said nothing, but she was conscious of his bright face watching her, curiosity and laughter so close to the surface she could feel it as if he touched her.

  A waiter came over and he ordered champagne, which in itself seemed to amuse him. When it came, he poured, lifted his glass, and toasted her.

  "To detectives," he said, his eyes silver in the light. "Would to God all mysteries were so simple."

  "I'm beginning to think it is the detectives who are simple!" she replied acidly, but she accepted the champagne and drank it. It was pleasantly sharp, neither sour nor sweet, and she felt less angry after it. When he poured more, she accepted that too.

  Presently a juggler came onto the stage, and she watched him without particular interest. She granted that what he was doing was extremely difficult, but it seemed hardly worth the effort. He was followed by a comic who told some very odd jokes, but the audience seemed to find them hilarious. She had a suspicion she had failed to understand the point.

  The waiter brought more champagne, and she became aware that she was beginning to find the colors and the music rather pleasing.

  A chorus of girls appeared and performed a song she was sure she had heard before, and then a man popped up and twisted himself into the oddest contortions.

  At last there was silence and then a roll of drums. The an shy;nouncer held up his hands.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, for your exclusive entertainment and enchantment, the culmination of your entire evening, the quintes shy;sence of beauty, of daring, of sheer dazzling delight-Miss Ada Church!"

  There was a thunder of applause, even whistles and shouts, and the curtain went up. There was only one woman on the stage, slender with a tiny waist and long, long legs encased in black trousers. A tailcoat and white shirt hid nothing of her figure, and a top hat was perched at a rakish angle on a pile of flaming red hair. She was smiling, and the joy seemed to radiate out of her to fill the whole hall.

  "Bravo, Ada!" someone shouted, and there was more clapping. As the orchestra started to play, her rich, throaty voice rang out in a gay, surging, bawdy song. It was less than vulgar, but there was an intimacy to it, full of suggested secrets.

  The audience roared its approval and sang the chorus along with her. By the third song, Charlotte found to her horror that she was joining in as well, music swelling up inside her with a pleasant, tingling happiness. Rutland Place seemed a thousand miles away, and she wanted to forget its darkness and its miseries. All that was good was here in the lights and the warmth, singing along with Ada Church, and the vitality that conquered everything.

  It would have shocked Caroline rigid, but now Charlotte was singing as loudly as the rest in the rollicking chorus: "Champagne Charlie is my name!"

  When at last the curtain came down for the final time, she stopped clapping and turned to find Inigo staring at her. She ought to have felt embarrassed, but somehow she was so exhila shy;rated it did not seem to matter.

  He held up the last bottle of champagne, but it was empty. He signaled for the waiter to bring another. I
nigo had barely opened it when Charlotte saw Ada Church herself walking toward them, giving a little wave of her arm, but gracefully avoiding the hands stretched out at her. She stopped at their table, and Inigo stood up immediately and offered her his chair.

  She kissed him on the cheek, and he slipped an arm around her.

  "Hello, darling," she said casually, then turned a dazzling smile on Charlotte.

  Inigo bowed very slightly. "Mrs. Pitt, may I present my sister Ottilie? Tillie, this is Charlotte Pitt, the daughter of one of my neighbors, who has rather let her family down by marrying into the police! She fancied we had done away with you, so I brought her here to see that you are in excellent health."

  For once, Charlotte was staggered beyond words.

  "Done away with me?" Ottilie said incredulously. "How absolutely marvelous! You know, I do believe the thought oc shy;curred to Papa, only he didn't have the nerve!" She began to laugh; it rose bubbling in her throat and rang out in rich delight. "How superb!" She clung onto Inigo's arm. "Do you mean the police are actually questioning Papa as to what he did with me, because they suspect him of murder? I do wish I could see his face as he tries to explain himself out of that! He'd almost rather die than tell anyone what I really am!"

  Inigo kept his arm around her, but suddenly his humor vanished.

  "It's a good deal more than that, Tillie. There has been a murder, a real one. Mina Spencer-Brown was poisoned. She was a Peeping Tom, and it rather looks as if she saw something worth killing to keep secret. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the police that your disappearance might be that something."

  Ottilie's laughter vanished instantly, and her hands tightened over his arm, long, slender hands with knuckles white where they gripped the stuff of his sleeve.

  "Oh God! You don't think-"

  "No," he said quickly, "it's not that. Papa has no idea-and I really don't think Mama cares. In fact, it has occurred to me, looking at her face across the table, that half of her rather wants everyone to know, especially him."

  "But you put them back?" she said urgently. "You promised-"

  "Of course I did, once I knew where they belonged. No one else knows." He turned to Charlotte. "I'm afraid my mother has a regrettable habit of picking up small things that do not belong to her. I do my best to replace them as soon as possible. I'm also afraid I took rather longer than usual with your mother's locket, because she said nothing about losing it so I didn't know to whom it belonged. I doubt I need to explain all the reasons for that?"