“That must be the greenhouse,” Emily said hopefully.
“Or a summerhouse,” Charlotte added. “Maybe that would be as good. Oh—no, of course it wouldn’t. Nothing in a summerhouse to cover stains.”
“I can’t see any glass,” Emily said with a note of desperation.
“I can’t see anything at all!” Charlotte responded.
“If it were glass we should see some gleam of light on it!” Emily hissed. “It’s not that dark!”
Charlotte stopped and turned around slowly, and Emily, not having noticed, bumped into her.
“Say something!” she snapped. “Don’t do that without telling me.”
“Sorry. Look! There’s a gleam. There’s glass over there. That must be the greenhouse.” And without waiting for comment she set off in the new direction. Within moments they were outside a small building where dim panes of glass reflected the fitful gleam of the moon in a watery pattern like dull satin.
“Is it locked?” Emily asked.
Charlotte put her hand to the door and tried it. It swung open under her touch, giving a painful squeak of unoiled hinges.
Emily let out a gasp, and immediately stifled it with her hand.
“Lamp!” she ordered.
As soon as they were inside Charlotte held it up and Emily lit it again. In its warm radiance the inside of the greenhouse sprang to vision. It was a small place set aside for forcing early flowers and vegetables. Trays of lettuce and marigold, delphinium, and larkspur seedlings sat on benches. Several geraniums were in pots on another shelf.
“Floor!” Emily whispered sharply. “Never mind about the shelves.”
Charlotte held the lamp down about two feet above the wooden planks on which they were standing.
“I can’t see anything,” Emily said with acute disappointment “It looks like hard-packed earth to me. Move it a bit.” This last instruction was directed at the light.
Charlotte inched farther along, holding the lamp carefully. The corner of her skirt caught a flowerpot and sent it over with a dull thud.
“Ah!” Emily drew in her breath with a suffocated cry.
“Ssh!” Charlotte moved the light again. Then she saw it: a long dark stain on the ground near the far wall. “Oh …”
Emily bent down and peered at it “It could be anything,” she said with sharp disappointment. “Look.” Above it was a shelf with various tins and bottles containing all sorts of chemicals and mixtures of fertilizer, creosote, and poison for wasps’ and ants’ nests.
“It’s probably creosote,” Charlotte said guardedly. “But not necessarily. If I had blood all over the place I should mask it by adding something strong like that. Here, pass me that trowel.”
“What are you going to do?” Emily passed it immediately.
“Dig.”
For several moments Charlotte scratched at the hard earth, painstakingly removing the ground soaked with creosote and exposing under it a further layer whose odor, when she lifted it gingerly to her nose, was quite different There was nothing sharp or pungent about it; it was stale and a little sweet.
“Blood?” Emily said with a catch in her voice.
“I think so.” Slowly Charlotte rose from her knees, her face pale. “Now we’ve got to find the barrow. Come on. It’s probably outside somewhere at this time of year.”
Very carefully, the lamp held low and half covered by a shawl, they tiptoed out of the greenhouse, pulling the door closed behind them, and into the garden again.
“You’ll have to hold the light up,” Emily said anxiously. “We’ll never see it otherwise.”
Charlotte held it up obediently.
“Where does one keep a barrow?” she said thoughtfully, her voice so low Emily barely heard it. “And the oilskins. I wonder where they are?”
“Maybe she burnt them?” Emily suggested. “I would.”
“Only if you’ve got an incinerator, and the servants wouldn’t notice. Oilskins would make a terrible smell. Anyway, I don’t suppose they are hers. They probably belong to the gardener. He’d miss them. No, she’d wash them off thoroughly and put them back. There must be a shed somewhere, for spades and forks and so on.” She turned around slowly, holding the light higher.
“There!” Emily said hastily, just at the same moment as Charlotte saw it. “Put the light down! Someone’ll see it! Come on, hurry up!”
At a rapid shuffle, so as not to trip or bump into anything, they moved towards the shed, which mercifully was not locked either. Once inside, the light was set on the bench, although it was hardly necessary. The wheelbarrow was immediately apparent, and the oilskins were hung on a peg above it.
Emily gave a little squeak of fear, and Charlotte shivered with a sudden consciousness of horror, knowing what it was she saw. Very carefully, her heart beating so violently it seemed as if her whole body shook with it, she put out her hand and ran her finger over the wooden surface of the wheelbarrow.
“Is it wet?” Emily asked.
“No, of course not,” Charlotte replied. “But it is stained pretty badly. I think it’s creosote again.” She moved over to the oilskins and held the lamp close up to them. “There’s something in the seams here. I’m sure that’s blood.”
“Then come on!” Emily whispered urgently. “We’ve got enough! Let’s leave before someone catches us!”
Gratefully Charlotte turned around and retreated, snagging her shawl on the barrow handle and yanking it in sudden fear.
Outside, they were about to douse the light and try to make their way back around the conservatory towards the wall when they saw another light about ten yards ahead of them, in the garden.
They both froze.
“Who goes there?” a loud masculine voice demanded. “Stop, or it’ll be the worse for yer!”
“Oh God!” Emily sobbed. “It’s the police!”
“We’ll tell them what we found!” Charlotte said boldly, but her legs were shaking and her stomach felt decidedly sick. For a moment or two her feet would not obey her.
Emily tried to speak, but no coherent sound came.
The constable was almost upon them. His cape and gleaming buttons were clearly visible. He held up his bull’s-eye lantern and stared at them incredulously.
“Well now then, what ’ave we ’ere? Two servant girls out to steal the lettuces, eh?”
“Most certainly not,” Charlotte said with as much dignity as she could muster, which was very little. “We are—”
Emily suddenly came to life and gave her a resounding kick.
Charlotte shrieked and swore involuntarily.
“Now then!” the constable said calmly. “There’s no need for bad language, miss. Who are yer, and wot are yer doing ’ere? I’ll ’ave ter take yer in charge. Yer don’t live ’ere. I know all Mrs. Arledge’s servants, and yer ain’t one of ’em, or two of ’em I should say.”
There was no evading the issue.
“No we are not!” Charlotte said, finding her voice at last. “My husband is Superintendent Thomas Pitt, of Bow Street station. And this is my—my maid.” There was no need to incriminate Emily, at least not yet She felt rather than heard Emily’s sigh of relief.
“Now then, miss, that’s a silly story that will just get you nowhere,” the constable said with some surprise.
“This is the scene of a murder!” Charlotte said fiercely. “There are bloodstains in that greenhouse, and if you don’t call Superintendent Pitt you will never be excused for it!”
“ ’E’ll be at ’ome in ’is bed,” the constable said firmly.
“Of course he will. He lives at number twelve, Gordon Square, Bloomsbury. Send for him!” Charlotte ordered imperiously. “And there’s a telephone.”
“Well, I don’t know if …”
He was saved from further argument or excuse by a light in the house going on and the scullery door opening.
“What’s going on?” a man’s voice called out peremptorily. “Who’s there?”
“Po
lice, sir,” the constable replied confidently. “Constable Woodrow, sir. I just caught two burglars in your garden.”
“We are not burglars!” Charlotte hissed.
“You be quiet!” Constable Woodrow was becoming unhappy; he was placed in a ridiculous situation. “No need to worry, sir. Everything is in ’and, you tell Mrs. Arledge not to disturb ’erself. I’ll take care of this.”
“It is nothing of the sort,” Charlotte said with sudden desperation. “We are not burglars. Send for Superintendent Pitt immediately.” She gulped. It was now or never. Everything was in the balance, Pitt’s career, their home. “This is the—the scene of a murder!”
“Murder?” The butler, dressed in his nightshirt, came out of the doorway at last, the lantern still in his hand. “Who is dead?”
“Mr. Arledge, you fool!” Charlotte said exasperatedly. “He was killed in his own greenhouse, and taken to the park in a wheelbarrow. Now send for the police! Have you one of the new telephone instruments?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then use it. Call Bloomsbury one-two-seven and fetch Superintendent Pitt.”
“Now, just a minute …” Woodrow began, but the butler had already turned and gone back into the house. A decisive command was better than standing in his nightshirt on the steps in the cold, arguing with a constable. He knew Pitt’s name, and the mistress had welcomed him in the house. He would sort out this fearful situation.
“Yer shouldn’t ’ave done that!” Woodrow said angrily.
A light sprang on upstairs in the house.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he went on. “Woke up poor Mrs. Arledge. As if she ’adn’t enough to bear, what with ’er ’usband’s death an’ all.”
Charlotte ignored him, pulling her shawl tighter around her. Now that they were no longer absorbed in what they were doing, she was growing cold.
Emily stood beside her shivering. She did not even wish to imagine what Jack might say when this came to his knowledge. There was just a faint hope Charlotte’s lie would hold.
That was ruined by more lights from the house and footsteps across the kitchen, and after a moment more, Dulcie Arledge herself appearing in the scullery doorway, dressed in a gorgeous sky-blue wrap and with her brown hair falling gently over her shoulders.
“What is going on here?” she asked with polite surprise. “Have you found intruders, Constable? Did I understand correctly?”
“That’s right, ma’am.” Woodrow stepped forward, dragging Charlotte and Emily with him.
Emily cowered, but surely Dulcie would not recognize her in this dress, in the uncertain light of the bull’s-eye lamp.
“Women?” Dulcie said incredulously. “They look like women.”
“They are women, ma’am,” Woodrow agreed. “After vegetables, likely. Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I’ll take ’em in and likely as not, you won’t ’ave ter do anything about it except agree ter the charge. Now come on.” He yanked at Charlotte a good deal less gently than before. Apparently his patience had snapped and he had changed his mind. Dulcie’s quiet authority had been enough to dispel any doubts.
“Charlotte!” There was panic rising in Emily’s voice. “Think of something! Not only will Thomas be ruined, Jack will be too!”
Such desperate times called for extreme measures. Charlotte opened her mouth and let out an earsplitting scream.
“Gawd!” Constable Woodrow leapt into the air and dropped the lantern. It rolled on the ground without breaking, ending up almost at the stone edge of the path. Charlotte did it again, and was rewarded by blinds shooting up in the house and more sounds of obvious activity.
“What did you do that for?” Emily hissed furiously.
“Witnesses,” Charlotte replied, and screamed again.
Woodrow swore vehemently and dived for the lantern.
“For Heaven’s sake stop it!” Dulcie commanded. “You’ll disturb the entire neighborhood. What on earth is the matter with you? Be quiet at once!”
Emily hesitated on the edge of trying to run away, and abandoned it.
Charlotte moved towards Dulcie, and into the radius of the light from the back door, just as Landon Hurlwood, hair disheveled, nightshirt showing above and below his dressing robe, appeared behind Dulcie, his face filled with alarm.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her, his voice husky with anxiety.
She froze, the blood draining from her face, leaving her suddenly ashen.
He looked beyond her at Charlotte, but there was no shred of recognition in his eyes. Then he turned to the constable. “What’s going on? What’s this? How serious is it?”
“No one’s hurt, sir,” Woodrow said, for the first time total uncertainty in his voice. He understood a scandal when he saw one, but to find it in Mrs. Arledge’s house destroyed his composure entirely. “This woman”—he indicated Charlotte—“this woman screamed, but no one has touched ’er, I swear.”
Hurlwood peered at her, and saw a young woman in a maid’s dress and with her hair wild and her skin stained with creosote and dust. Then his eyes went beyond her to Emily, now also in the light.
“Mrs. Radley …” Then he blanched, realizing at last what Dulcie had seen from the first.
“I can’t imagine, Mrs. Radley, what persuaded you to break into my garden in the middle of the night,” Dulcie said with a cold, shaking voice. “But there is nothing I can do to assist you. I think you must be mad. Perhaps the strain of childbirth, and then the political campaign, has broken your health. Your husband—”
“The police are coming,” Charlotte interrupted firmly.
“The police are already here!” Dulcie pointed out.
“I mean Superintendent Pitt.” Charlotte pushed her hair out of her eyes. “We have found the place where Mr. Arledge was murdered. There is still blood on the ground, in spite of the creosote you’ve poured over it. And also the wheelbarrow in which you took him to the park, after you had cut his head off.”
Dulcie opened her mouth to protest, but her voice died in a gasp.
Behind her, Landon Hurlwood was so white his eyes looked like holes sunken into his skull.
“And the oilskins,” Charlotte continued relentlessly. It must be finished. “Which you used to protect yourself from the blood.”
“That’s stupid!” Woodrow said with a strangled gasp. “Why would Mrs. Arledge ever think of such a dreadful thing? That’s wicked.”
“To be free to marry Mr. Hurlwood, now his wife is dead too; to escape from a dead marriage and revenge herself for twenty years’ betrayal,” Charlotte said, her voice strangely level in the awful silence. “She took advantage of the Headsman’s crimes to kill him and open the way for her.”
Woodrow turned to Dulcie. Landon Hurlwood had moved a step away from her, a terrible comprehension filling his face, like the knowledge of death.
Dulcie shot a look of hatred at Charlotte so intense Emily stepped backwards away from her, and Charlotte felt the cold run right through her body. Then Dulcie turned to Hurlwood.
“Landon!” She let out a single cry, then saw his expression—the horror, the tearing bruising guilt, and the revulsion—and knew that everything was lost.
It was impossible to say what she might have done next, because the garden doors had opened without their hearing them and Pitt stood wild-haired and ill-dressed not a yard from them.
Dulcie turned to him, opened her mouth, but no sound came.
Pitt’s face was filled with a disillusion that carried all the pain of every awakening from a sweet and gentle dream into a bitter reality. Then even as Charlotte watched him, she saw the admiration and tenderness bleed away until there was only an agonizing remnant left, that small shred of pity that never left him, no matter for whom or what the wound or the guilt. And with a coldness that ran right through her, leaving her shaking, she realized how deeply he had been moved by Dulcie, and how close she herself had come to losing a part of him which she could never have regained.
“C
onstable, take Mrs. Arledge to the Bow Street station. She is under arrest for the murder of Aidan Arledge,” he said very quietly.
Woodrow gulped. “Yes sir. Yes sir!” And he moved forward to obey.
Landon Hurlwood stood rooted to the spot like a man already passed beyond the world of ordinary exchange and the small businesses of life.
Pitt turned to Charlotte and Emily.
“Your own husband can take care of you,” he said to Emily. “You, thank God, are not my problem.” He turned to Charlotte. “You have some explaining to do, madam. You deserve to be taken in charge for breaking and entering!”
“You’ve got her.” Charlotte disregarded his words completely. “Will you be restored to your position now?”
For several seconds he struggled manfully to retain his anger, and lost. In spite of his best efforts his face broke into a smile of overwhelming relief. “Yes. I got the Headsman today, too.”
“You did?” She did not even care who he was, or why. She launched herself forward and threw herself into his arms. “You are brilliant! I always knew you were brilliant!”
He clasped her as closely as he could and kissed her cheek, her hair, her eyes, and then her mouth. Then he put out his other arm and took hold of Emily as well.
“Shall you tell Jack?” Emily asked in a very small voice.
“No,” Pitt replied with a muffled laugh. “But you will!”
TRAITORS GATE
by Anne Perry
“In the tradition of Margaret Millar and Ruth Rendell, Perry saves her largest, tastiest revelation for the very last paragraphs.”
—Los Angeles Times
Someone in the Colonial Office is passing secrets to Germany about England’s strategy on Africa. While Police Superintendent Thomas Pitt investigates this matter of treason, he is quietly looking into the tragic death of his childhood mentor, Sir Arthur Desmond. Pitt believes he was murdered, and that the crime is connected with the treachery in the government. When the strangled body of an aristocratic society beauty is found floating near lonely Traitors Gate, Pitt and his clever wife, Charlotte, begin to see clearly the pattern of tragedy and frightening evil that he must deal with, at the risk of his career—and his life….
Anne Perry - [Thomas Pitt 14] Page 42
