Half Moon Street

by Anne Perry

  “Are you suggesting he brought it upon himself ?” Mariah demanded. “He fought, so he deserved to be murdered?” She did not want this line of thought. “Sometimes your ideas of right and wrong confuse me.” She aimed that remark at Caroline.

  “I am not talking about right or wrong,” Caroline said impatiently. “Only about probability.”

  “That should not surprise me,” the old lady retorted. She did not explain what she meant. Their looks of confusion satisfied her.

  The meal continued for some time in silence.

  “Warriner has withdrawn his bill,” Joshua said finally.

  Mariah had no idea what he was talking about, but from his expression she deduced that it displeased him intensely. She did not ask.

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said quietly. “I suppose it was to be expected.”

  Joshua grimaced. “Part of me says it is providence. They should wait for a better time. The other part says it is cowardice and we should make our own time. We could wait forever.”

  Mariah’s curiosity was piqued. On a different occasion she would have asked what they were taking about. Now other matters were crowding far too urgently in her mind. She must contrive to speak to Joshua alone. One thing he had said was true—one must make one’s own time. One might wait for other people to offer it forever, and still fail.

  Her mind raced. What excuse could she make for speaking with Joshua alone? She could hardly ask him for financial advice. She obtained that from Jack. A family matter she would have spoken about to Caroline, a loss or a threat of any sort she would have called Pitt for. A chore she would have called a servant to do. She barely knew Joshua. She had never hidden her disapproval of him personally and of the marriage in general. What reason could she use?

  Maybe she could get Caroline to leave? A domestic duty. But what? Anything usual she would leave until Joshua was gone.

  She must go herself, and then catch Joshua in the hall. Not very satisfactory, but she could not wait for something better. She stood up, placing her napkin across her plate. She was leaving half her tea, but that could not be helped.

  “Excuse me,” she said, her voice a little high-pitched. It was ridiculous. She must control her nerves. “I have a small errand to do.” And without struggling for further explanation, she went. No one commented. They were not curious as to what she was doing in such a hurry. This realization made her feel bitterly alone.

  She must govern her thoughts. This was a time for action. Soon Joshua would leave and she must take the opportunity to catch him alone. If Caroline came into the hall to wish him good-bye, she would have no opportunity, unless she actually went outside altogether. It would appear excessive. There would be no way in which she could claim it was an accidental encounter. But she could not afford to wait another day. Samuel Ellison must not come back to the house! Once he spoke it would be too late forever. It could never be withdrawn. One cannot undo knowledge.

  She went to the front door and opened it. The air was brisk, the sun warm, smelling of dust and horses. In the park a hundred yards away the leaves were beginning to turn. The grass was still damp. An errand boy was whistling. There was a woman on a bicycle, wearing most unsuitable clothes, traveling far too quickly. Mariah envied her. She looked so completely free, and happy.

  She turned her attention back to her task. How long would he be? She had not actually made certain that he was going out at all this morning, but he usually did, not early like most men, because he had been late the previous evening. The whole household rose late.

  She paced back and forth on the pavement, feeling more and more conspicuous. Then suddenly he was there, coming down the path, and she had had her back to him and not seen. She turned and hurried towards him.

  “Mrs. Ellison.” He looked startled. He seemed about to say something, and then decided against it.

  She must seize the chance, no matter how awkward it was to find the words or how foolish he thought her. Her survival depended on it.

  “Joshua! I . . . I must speak with you . . . in confidence.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked, catching her emotion.

  “Yes,” she said hastily. “I fear it is. But it may be addressed, and more damage prevented.”

  He did not look sufficiently alarmed. How should she phrase it so as to be believed? She had rehearsed this through the restless hours of the night, but still it did not sound right yet.

  “What is the matter?” he asked her, quite gently, without alarm.

  She wanted to be away from the front door, in case Caroline should chance to look out one of the windows and see them. She started to walk, and he moved with her, keeping step. She must begin.

  “It is Samuel Ellison,” she said, finding herself oddly breathless. “No doubt you know he has been calling quite regularly at the house, in the afternoons. He stays for far longer than merely a social call.”

  “He is family,” Joshua replied. “Is that not natural enough?”

  “Natural, maybe.” She heard the sharpness in her voice and tried to steady it. “But he is . . . behaving in an unfortunate manner.”

  “Really?” There was no change in his expression.

  This was worse than she had expected. Damn him for being so obtuse. Now she would have to be too frank. Why couldn’t the man use his imagination? He was supposed to be an actor. Couldn’t he think?

  “He is overfamiliar!” she said sharply.

  “With you?” His eyebrows rose as if he found the thought of it incredible. “Well, if you feel he is rude and you cannot curtail it yourself, you had better ask Caroline to speak to him.”

  “Not with me!” she said. She only just avoided adding “you fool!” “With Caroline! He very obviously finds her attractive and feels no need to disguise it. It is . . . it is worse than unsuitable—it is cause for concern.”

  He stiffened slightly. “I am sure Caroline is quite able to remind him of appropriate behavior,” he said, a little coolly. “He is American. Perhaps over there manners are freer.”

  “If he is anything to go by, then they are very free indeed,” she said with a note of desperation. “I speak because I am concerned for Caroline’s reputation. And for your welfare . . .” For heaven’s sake, could he not see what she was saying? Was he totally stupid? Or perhaps he did not care? What a terrible thought . . . it filled her with ice, as if someone had opened a door onto midwinter. Maybe theatre people behaved that sort of way and expected others to. Immorality might mean nothing to him.

  No! That could not be true. It must not be.

  Joshua smiled very slightly, a small curve of the lips. “I am sure Caroline will rebuff him, gently, if he should trespass. But thank you for speaking on her behalf. I’m glad you are there, which will assure no one has room to speak ill of her. Good morning.” And with a nod of his head, he passed her and continued on his way towards the end of the street, where presumably he was going to look for a hansom.

  The old lady stood on the pavement alone, furious and defeated. But it was temporary. It must be! She could not afford to surrender. Samuel Ellison would be back, and next time, or the time after, he would finally say something which Caroline would understand, some thread which she would unravel until it reached the truth and nothing was left anymore, nothing safe or clean, no light, nothing but the darkness consuming everything.

  She turned and walked back up the path, climbed the steps and went into the house. Her mind raced. She had tried, and it had not been enough. She had been delicate, subtle, laying no blame except upon Samuel, and it had not worked.

  She crossed the hall past the housemaid carrying one of those new sweeping machines. Time had been when there were half a dozen maids, and carpets had been sprinkled with damp tea leaves and swept and beaten two or three times a week. Households had been run properly then!

  She went upstairs to her room and closed the door. She must be alone to think. There was no time to waste. Whatever she did, it must be today. Another visi
t could bring ruin.

  There was still only one way she could think of to ensure that Samuel Ellison never returned. If Joshua would not be told and believe her, then he must be shown in such a way he could not disbelieve. He had left her no choice.

  The question now was how to achieve it. There were many details to be considered with great care. She could afford no mistakes. Since she had tried and failed that morning, there was now only once chance left. It must succeed.

  She sat by the window in the autumn sun and worked it out to the least detail. The timing must be perfect. She knew what the cost would be. She regretted it would be so high. If Joshua left Caroline she would be alone, reputation ruined and without means of her own, but Emily would see that she was not homeless. She would be provided for to that extent. If she were to live in Ashworth House it would be highly uncomfortable, but it was large enough that Caroline and Mariah would be able to avoid each other. If necessary one of them could live in the hall in the country. Probably Caroline, since she would be socially ostracized. It was a pity, it was not what Mariah would have wanted, but survival made it necessary. There was no decision to consider.

  It was best to begin immediately. Long thinking might weaken her resolve. Now that the times for everything had been planned precisely, written in a neat, crabbed hand, but unwaveringly, there was nothing else to prepare. She already knew Caroline’s plans for the next two days. She would be in this evening, and Joshua would be at rehearsal. It was perfect, as if it were meant to be.

  She wrote the first letter.

  Dear Samuel,

  You can have little idea how intensely I have enjoyed your company and the friendship you have offered me. You have brought into my life much that I had not even realized I was missing so deeply. Your stories of America are not only thrilling, but far more than that, you have the eyes to see beauty where other people might miss it, to see laughter and to feel compassion in a rare and wonderful way, which wakens in me an appreciation of life I hardly knew I possessed.

  Was that too strong? Or not plain enough? Surely he would understand? She had seen Caroline’s handwriting often enough over the years on household accounts and invitations for the cook that it was easy to copy. They had never written letters to each other; there had been no occasion. The style she had to invent. But then Caroline had not written to Samuel Ellison either, so he would not know differently.

  He must not mistake her meaning. She must leave no doubt or the whole plan would fail. There was only this one chance. It was win or lose everything.

  She continued:

  Before you leave London and go to see the rest of the country I should like to visit with you as often as you can spare the time. I shall miss you extraordinarily when you return to New York. Life will seem so pedestrian again.

  Surely that was forward enough, even for an American?

  Please call upon us this afternoon, at about five o’clock, if you are at all able. I realize I am behaving with unbecoming urgency, but I can talk with you as I can with no one else. You are family, a link with the past which for me is gone everywhere else I turn. We have so much in common which no one else shares. As you may have observed, and I am sure you have, I find my mother-in-law difficult to speak with, except about trivialities.

  Should she add anything about loneliness? No. It was explicit. She must not sound hysterical, it might put him off, and that was the last thing she wished—unless it were completely. And she doubted she could do that. This was her only chance, like one throw of the dice. Win—or lose it all.

  I hope to see you,

  Yours most affectionately,

  Caroline

  Should she read it over? Or would she lose her nerve and fail at the last minute? No. Fold it up and post it. Now.

  Or maybe she should read it?

  She hesitated, sitting with it in her hands.

  Once it was gone it was irretrievable.

  But the situation was irretrievable anyway. It had been, even since Samuel Ellison had come through the door.

  She folded it, put it in the envelope, addressed it, and attached the stamp.

  She stood up and walked downstairs and out of the front door into the warm sun. The pillar box was at the end of the street. The post would be collected in half an hour. If Samuel returned to his hotel in time, he would have it long before five o’clock.

  Again she hesitated, standing with it in her hand next to the red pillar box.

  But if she did not post it he would come in an afternoon, perhaps with other people there, and the conversation would turn to Alys, as it had every other time. Caroline would ask about her, and it would all come spilling out, now or tomorrow, or the day after. Here on the hot pavement in the bright sunlight she was cold as remembered pain filled her, the struggle, the anger swelled back like a tide, the helplessness, the knowledge she could not fight, could not escape, could not refuse, could not even slip into the mercy of oblivion. She had tried that, tried to die, but one did not die of misery.

  She let go of the letter and heard it thump on the others lying inside the box. It was done. Now to return home and carry out the rest of the plan. Alys would have done something like this—to protect herself.

  Then there was nothing to do but wait. Caroline had already said that she did not intend to go out. Perhaps she was hoping Samuel Ellison would call. That was possible.

  The old lady spent a wretched day. She thought it must be the most tense and miserable time of her life. She had no more excuses to remain upstairs unless she pretended to be ill, and she did not want to behave in any way other than usual, in case it aroused suspicion. No one must ever know what she had done.

  But she could hardly bear to look at Caroline. Her own thoughts consumed her. Perhaps it would be easier if she called on someone else, but she must be there in case he came early, or should Caroline change her mind and decide to go out. She might need all her wits to counter such a thing.

  This afternoon would make up for all the years of the past when she had done nothing but endure, like a coward. It would wipe all that away, cancel it as if it had never been. She would be rid of it. The thought of that freedom was like a crushing burden lifted. She would not despise herself anymore, nor feel that boredom of shame like a stone inside her.

  She would have liked to talk about something trivial, to keep her thoughts occupied, but she could think of nothing, and it would be out of character. She and Caroline never chatted in friendly, inconsequential fashion. So she sat in silence while Caroline wrote to Charlotte in Paris, and there was no sound in the room but the flames in the hearth, the occasional fall of ash as the coals collapsed, and the scratch of Caroline’s pen over the page.

  Then suddenly it happened. The maid was at the door.

  “Mr. Ellison has called, ma’am. Shall I say you are receiving?”

  Caroline looked surprised. “Oh! Yes, please tell him we are.” She was smiling. She looked very elegant in her afternoon dress, and there was a slight flush to her cheeks.

  The door opened again and Samuel came in, his eyes going straight to Caroline. He could not keep the pleasure from his face. He barely glanced at Mariah.

  “How nice to see you,” Caroline said courteously. “It is a little late for tea. Would you care for some other refreshment?”

  “Thank you,” he accepted, coming farther into the room. “I hope it is not an inconvenient hour?” At last he acknowledged the old lady. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison.”

  This was going extremely well. She could hardly have orchestrated it better. She rose to her feet.

  “If you will excuse me,” she said, grasping her stick. “I shall return directly.” And without further explanation she left the room. She must send the other letter immediately. It was already written. There was an all-purpose manservant. He would deliver it if she gave him the necessary cab fare. She had that ready also.

  She went up to her room and fetched the letter. She knew it by heart. It was very simple.


  Dear Joshua,

  Will you please return home the moment you receive this. Do not hesitate. The situation is serious, and only your presence may avert disaster.

  I am very sorry,

  Mariah Ellison

  She took the envelope and several shillings and gave them to the manservant.

  He looked startled.

  “Will you take this to Mr. Fielding immediately, please,” she requested. “It is most urgent, a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “ ’E’s in rehearsal, ma’am,” he protested. “ ’E won’t want to be interrupted.”

  “Of course he won’t,” she agreed. “But he will want even less the disaster which will happen if you do not deliver this to him at once and see that he reads it. If you have any loyalty to him at all, do as you are told!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Looking puzzled and unhappy, he obeyed.

  Mariah went back upstairs, checking the clock on the landing, wondering how long she would have to wait.

  Perhaps she should go downstairs again, in case Samuel was aware of being unchaperoned and left? Or Caroline perceived the impropriety of it and asked him to go.

  She turned and walked back, still uncertain.

  She stood at the top of the stairs and saw the parlormaid go across the hall with a salver with a decanter of whisky and a glass. Excellent! At least he would remain until he had drunk that.

  She would go down in five minutes, or maybe ten. How long would it take the servant to go to the theatre, and Joshua to read the letter and come back? He would come, surely? If he didn’t it would only be because he already suspected something and did not care. That was not true. He was certainly an actor, but he was a decent man, gentle, unusually honest. She had noticed that about him. He had unfortunately liberal ideas about some things, but he was essentially loyal and kind. He would care very much. No one could be betrayed without pain.

  She refused to think of that. She was stupid to have allowed her mind to wander to such thoughts.