by Seven Dials
ON THE FOURTH DAY after the murder of Edwin Lovat was discovered, the newspapers openly demanded the arrest, at least for questioning, of Saville Ryerson. He was known to have been on the premises at the time, and the writer of the article did not need to do more than ask what business he would have had there to suggest the answer.
Pitt sat at the breakfast table, tight-lipped, his face pale. Charlotte did not make any comment or otherwise interrupt what was obviously a painful train of thought. The defense of Ryerson which Mr. Gladstone had commanded was becoming more and more difficult. She watched him discreetly, and wished there were some way to offer comfort. But if she were honest, she believed Ryerson was guilty, if not of the crime, then at least of attempting to conceal it. Had someone not called the police, he would have removed the body from where the murder took place and done all he could to obscure the evidence. That was a crime. No ability to solve the cotton industry problems in Manchester could justify that—in fact, there was no stretch of the imagination which could connect it at all with his keeping of a mistress in Eden Lodge. It was a private weakness, an indulgence for which he would now have to pay very heavily indeed.
She looked at the anxiety in Pitt’s face and a wave of anger swept over her that he should be expected to carry the responsibility for rescuing a man from his own folly, and then blamed because he could not do what any fool could see was impossible. He was being coerced into trying to evade a truth which it was both his duty and his own moral need to expose. For years they had used him to do that; now they had forced him into the position of denying the very values which had made him honorable before.
He looked up quickly and caught her glance.
“What?” he asked.
She smiled. “Nothing. I’m going to see Emily this morning. I know Grandmama will be there, and I haven’t really managed to speak to her without embarrassment ever since Mama learned about . . . what happened to her.” She still found it uncomfortable to speak of . . . even to Pitt. “It is more than time I did so,” she went on hastily. She had arranged the visit over the telephone the previous evening, after speaking with Gracie. Pitt had a telephone because of his professional need for it, and Emily had one because she could afford pretty well anything she cared for.
The shadow of a smile crossed Pitt’s face for an instant. He was long acquainted with Charlotte’s grandmother and knew her temper of old.
Charlotte said no more about it, and when Pitt left, without letting her know what he hoped to seek or to find that day, she went upstairs and changed into her best morning gown. She did not follow fashion—it was far beyond her financial means, the more so since Pitt had been demoted from being in charge of Bow Street to working for Special Branch—but a well-cut gown in a color that was flattering had a dignity no one could rob from her. She chose a warm, autumn shade to complement her auburn-toned hair and honey-fair complexion. The gown had not the current high-shouldered sleeves, but the almost nonexistent bustle was just right.
It was not an occasion for the omnibus, so she took the price of a hansom out of the housekeeping money, and arrived at Emily’s opulent town house at quarter past ten.
She was shown in by a parlor maid who knew her well and conducted her immediately to Emily’s boudoir—that private sitting room wealthy ladies kept for the entertaining of close friends.
Emily was waiting for her, dressed as always with the utmost elegance, in her favorite pale green which so suited her fair coloring. She stood up as soon as Charlotte was in the room, excitement in her face, her eyes bright. She came forward and gave Charlotte a quick kiss, then stood back. “So what has happened?” she demanded. “You said it was important. It sounds terribly heartless of me to put it into words, I know, when it was a real blow to Thomas, and so unjust, but I really mind his leaving Bow Street. I’ve no idea what cases he has now, but they all seem to be secret.” She stepped back and waved to Charlotte to be seated in one of the soft, floral-fabric-covered chairs. “I’m bored to tears with society, and even politics seems terribly tedious at the moment,” she went on, sweeping her skirts tidily and sitting down herself. “There isn’t even a decent scandal, except the one about the Egyptian woman.” She leaned forward, her face vivid. “Did you know that the newspapers are demanding that Saville Ryerson be arrested as well? Isn’t that absurd?” Her eyes searched Charlotte’s face questioningly. “I suppose Thomas would have been working on that if he were still at Bow Street. Perhaps it’s just as well he isn’t. I wouldn’t like the untangling of that affair!”
“I’m afraid my case is very pedestrian,” Charlotte said, trying to keep her face comparatively expressionless. She could not afford to be sidetracked now, even by the most colorful of scandals. She sat back in the chair. The room was gold and green and there were late yellow roses and earthy-smelling chrysanthemums in a dark green vase on the table. For an instant she was taken back to the house she had grown up in, the comfort and the ignorance of the shadows and poverty in the larger world beyond.
Then the moment passed.
“So what is it?” Emily asked, folding her hands in her lap and paying complete attention. “Give me something to occupy my mind with other than trivia. I am bored to tears with talk about things that don’t matter.” She smiled with faint self-mockery. “I am afraid my social shallowness is passing. Isn’t that alarming? The pursuit of pleasure isn’t fun anymore. It is like too much chocolate soufflé, which a few years ago I wouldn’t have believed possible.”
“Then let me offer you something much more ordinary,” Charlotte replied.
She was about to explain the situation when there was a sharp rap on the door, as with the head of a walking stick, and a moment later the door flew open and a short, fierce old woman stood on the threshold. She was dressed in plum and black, and her expression was one of undisguised outrage, although she did not seem to know whether to direct it at Emily or at Charlotte.
Perhaps it had been inevitable. Charlotte rose to her feet and with a mighty effort forced herself to smile. “Good morning, Grandmama,” she said, going over to the old lady. “You look very well.”
“Don’t assume how I am, young woman!” the old lady snapped. “You haven’t called on me in months! How could you know? You have no feelings, no sense of duty at all. Ever since you married that police person you have lost all sense of decency.”
Charlotte’s resolution to be polite died an instant death. “You have changed your mind, then!” she retorted.
The old lady was nonplussed. It annoyed her still more. “I don’t know what you mean. Why can’t you speak clearly? You used to be able to. It must be the company you keep.” She glared at her other granddaughter. “Are you going to invite me to sit down, Emily? Or have you lost all your manners as well?”
“You are always welcome to sit down, Grandmama,” Emily said with veiled patience. “Surely you know that?”
The old lady sat down heavily in the third chair, balancing her cane in front of her. She turned to Charlotte. “What do you mean, changed my mind? I don’t change my mind!”
“You said I have lost my sense of decency,” Charlotte replied.
“So you have!” the old lady said tartly. “No change in that!”
Charlotte smiled at her. “You used to say I never had any.”
“Are you going to allow me to be insulted?” the old lady demanded of Emily.
“I think it is Charlotte who was insulted, Grandmama,” Emily pointed out, but now there was a smile hovering around her lips and she was having trouble concealing it.
The old lady grunted. “Well, if she was insulted, no doubt she looked for it. Who insulted her? She mixes with a very low class of person. I daresay it is all she can aspire to. Comes of marrying beneath her. I always said it would lead to trouble. I told you—but would you listen to me? Of course not. Well, now you see what happens? Although what you expect Emily to do about it, I’m sure I don’t know.”
Charlotte started to laugh, and after a
moment’s hesitation Emily joined in.
The old lady had no idea what was funny, but she certainly was not going to admit it. She considered what to do for several seconds, then decided she had least to lose by joining in, which she did. It was a curious, rusty sound, one that even Emily, in whose house the old woman lived, had not heard in years.
She remained for another ten minutes or so, then in spite of the fact that she was desperately inquisitive as to why Charlotte had called, she dragged herself to her feet and stumped out. It was apparent that no one was going to tell her, and she would not sacrifice her dignity to ask.
As soon as the door was closed behind her, Emily leaned forward. “So?” she asked. “What is this more ordinary problem that has engaged you?”
“Gracie has a friend, Tilda Garvie,” Charlotte began. “Her brother, Martin, is valet to Stephen Garrick, living in Torrington Square. Tilda and Martin are very close, being orphans since the ages of six and eight, respectively.”
“Yes?” Emily’s eyes were wide.
“Martin has not been seen for four days now, and according to Garrick’s butler, is no longer in the house, but he would not tell Tilda where Martin has gone, nor why.”
“A missing valet?” There was no inflection in Emily’s voice to betray her emotions.
“A missing brother,” Charlotte corrected. “More significant than his mere absence is the fact that it was over the time of Tilda’s birthday, which he has never previously forgotten. If he had lost his position, and thus his lodging, even if the circumstances were embarrassing or disgraceful, surely he would have found a way to convey to her his whereabouts?”
“What do you suspect?” Emily frowned. “Have the Garricks reported him missing?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said impatiently. “I can hardly go to the nearest police station and ask them. But if they had, then why did they not tell Tilda so, just in case she knew where he was?”
“It would seem the intelligent thing to do,” Emily agreed. “But people are not always as clever as you would suppose. The most surprising people lack ordinary sense. What other possibilities are there?” She held up her fingers. “He was dismissed for dishonesty? He ran off with a woman, one of the maids from another household? He ran off with someone’s daughter, or worse, someone’s wife? Or a prostitute?” She started on the other hand. “He is in debt and has to hide from his debtors? Or worst of all, he met with an accident, or was attacked on purpose, and is dead somewhere but has not been identified?”
Charlotte had already thought of most of those answers, especially the last. “Yes, I know,” she said quietly. “I would like to find out which of them is the truth, for Tilda’s sake . . . and Gracie’s. I think she quarreled with Inspector Tellman over it because he said it wasn’t a case, so he couldn’t look into it.”
“Inspector? Oh . . . yes.” Emily’s expression quickened with interest. “How is that romance going? Will she relent and marry him, do you think? What will you do without her? Look for a good maid already trained, or start again with another child? You can’t! Can you?”
“I don’t know whether she will or not,” Charlotte said ruefully. “I rather think so . . . I hope so, because he is so much in love with her, and he is beginning to realize it slowly, and with great reluctance. And I have no idea what I shall do without her. I don’t even want to think of it. I have had more changes than I wish to already.”
Emily’s sympathy was instant and genuine. “I know,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry. It was much more fun in the old days, when we helped Thomas with his cases—our cases—wasn’t it?”
Charlotte bit her lip, half to hide a smile, half so the sharpness of it would recall her to the present. “I need to find out all I can about Stephen Garrick,” she said firmly. “Sufficient so I can either discover indirectly what happened to Martin Garvie or, if necessary, just ask him.”
“I’ll help you,” Emily said without hesitation. “What do you know about the Garricks?”
“Nothing, except where they live, and even that only approximately.”
Emily rose to her feet. “Then we need to begin by enquiring.” She looked Charlotte up and down with more or less approval. “You are ready to go calling, except you will need a better hat. I’ll get you one of mine. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes . . .” She reconsidered. “Or perhaps half an hour.”
They set off actually almost an hour later in Emily’s carriage, first to call upon a friend close enough so they could be fairly open in asking questions.
“No, he’s not married,” Mrs. Edsel said rather seriously. She was a pleasant, rather ordinary-looking woman, distinguished only by a lively expression and an unfortunate taste in earrings. “Is someone you know considering him?”
“I rather think so,” Emily lied with practiced social ease. She was used to the accommodations of good manners. “Should she not?”
“Well, there’s plenty of money, I believe.” Mrs. Edsel leaned forward a little, her face eager. Gossip was food and drink to her, but she also genuinely wished to be helpful. “A very good family. His father, Ferdinand Garrick, is a highly influential man. Excellent military record, so my husband says.”
“So why would his son not be a good match?” Emily asked innocently.
“Perhaps for the right woman, he might be.” Mrs. Edsel remembered her social aspirations and became more circumspect.
“And for the wrong woman?” Charlotte could contain herself no longer.
Mrs. Edsel regarded her with a shadow of suspicion. She knew Emily, but Charlotte was a stranger, and neither her possible use nor her danger was known.
A shadow of warning crossed Emily’s face, and of criticism for having interrupted.
There was no way to take it back. Charlotte made herself smile, and it felt a bit like the baring of teeth. “I am concerned for a friend,” she said with perfect honesty. Despite their differing stations, Gracie was most certainly a friend; few others were as good.
Mrs. Edsel eased a fraction. “Is your friend young?” she enquired.
“Yes.” Charlotte guessed this was the correct answer.
“Then I think she would be wiser to look elsewhere—unless she is very plain.”
This time Charlotte held her tongue.
“What is his fault?” Emily asked with extraordinary boldness. “Does he have disreputable friends? Who might know him?”
“Oh, really . . .” Mrs. Edsel was now torn between anxiety at committing an irretrievable indiscretion, and a burning curiosity. “He belongs to the usual clubs, I’ve heard,” she went on. That remark was surely safe enough.
“Does he?” Emily opened her blue eyes very wide. “I cannot recall my husband mentioning him. Perhaps I simply did not notice.”
“I am sure he is a member of Whites,” Mrs. Edsel assured her. “And that is just about the best.”
“Indeed,” Emily agreed.
“Anyone who is anyone . . .” Charlotte murmured sententiously.
Mrs. Edsel gave a little gasp, and then a giggle, quickly stifled. “To be honest, I really don’t know. But my husband says he drinks a good deal more than he can hold . . . rather often. It is not a gross fault, I know, but I don’t care for it myself. And he is somewhat morose of temperament. I find that most difficult. I prefer a man of reliable demeanor.”
“So do I.” Emily nodded, avoiding Charlotte’s eyes in case she should laugh, knowing what a lie that was. It sounded unutterably boring.
“And I!” Charlotte added with feeling as Mrs. Edsel looked to her for approval. “Indeed, if you are going to spend some time with a person, it is essential. One cannot be forever wondering what to expect.”
“You are quite right,” Mrs. Edsel said with a smile. “I hope you do not think I am forward, but I would advise your friend most decidedly to wait a few months longer. Is it her first season?”
Charlotte and Emily said yes and no at the same moment, but Mrs. Edsel was looking at Charlotte.
As soon as they were back in the carriage Emily burst into such laughter she gave herself hiccups. Charlotte did not know whether to laugh back or explode with temper.
“Laugh!” Emily commanded as the driver urged the horses forward and they proceeded towards the next appointment. “You were magnificent, and totally absurd! Thomas would never let you forget it, if he knew.”
“Well, he doesn’t know!” Charlotte said warningly.
Emily leaned comfortably against the padded back of the carriage seat, still smiling to herself. “I think you should tell him . . . except you probably couldn’t do it well. I should do it, really.”
“Emily!”
“Oh, please!” That was not a request so much as a remonstration for meanness of spirit. “I am sure he would appreciate a joke—and this really is one!”
Charlotte had to admit that was true. “Well, choose your time wisely. He has a miserable case at the moment.”
“Can we help?” Emily said instantly, her attention totally serious again.
“No!” Charlotte replied firmly. “At least not yet. Anyway, we need to find Martin Garvie.”
“We will,” Emily assured her confidently. “We are going to luncheon with just the person. I arranged it while I was dressing.”
THE PERSON PROVED to be a young protégé of Emily’s husband, Jack. He was confident, ambitious, and delighted to be taken to luncheon by his mentor’s wife. And since her sister was present, it was as correct as could be.
