by Anne Perry
She went upstairs to her bedroom, washed and put on dry boots, then presented herself at Celia’s sitting-room door.
The room was warm inside, both literally from the fire in the hearth, and emotionally from the rich colours, the sheen on the polished wood of the furniture, and the wealth of books on the shelves. At any other time Jemima would have taken pleasure in it, and said so.
Celia was sitting in one of the armchairs. A piece of embroidery, half-finished, lay on top of a sewing basket next to her.
Celia smiled and gestured for her to sit opposite her. Jemima accepted gratefully, glad of the warmth, and also very happy to sit down at last.
‘How are you, Miss Pitt?’ Celia said with apparent concern. ‘I hear from Farrell that you have been out all day. Is that so? The weather is bitter.’
Jemima wanted to scream at the banality of the question, but she forced herself to keep calm and respond courteously. ‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Cold, tired, no doubt,’ Celia smiled. ‘I have sent for tea. It should be here any moment. I shall not ask you where you went. It is possible I prefer not to know.’
Jemima drew in her breath to say something, and no sensible answer occurred to her. She was saved from silence by the arrival of the maid with a heavy tray with tea, milk, hot water and two plates of food: one of delicate savoury sandwiches cut as finely as any she had seen in the high society of London; the other of individual little cakes of several sorts, some filled with whipped cream.
Celia thanked the maid and dismissed her, then without asking, poured the tea for each of them.
Jemima accepted a sandwich, for the sake of good manners, and found it delicious. This whole performance was absurd, and yet there was nothing remotely funny about it.
‘I’m so sorry about Maria,’ Celia said conversationally. ‘I was fond of her.’
‘People speak well of her,’ Jemima replied, wondering as she did so if she was playing a dangerous game. She could not work out if Celia was being honest with her or playing some game of her own. Looking at her thin, intelligent face with its almost hidden humour, she had an urgent feeling that it was the latter. But what was at the heart of it? Fear of losing her position in the Albright mansion? Did she even have any means of her own? How terrible! Jemima loved her brother, Daniel, but she had no intention whatever of being beholden to him for the rest of her life!
Celia was nodding. ‘They would do. She had a considerable charm.’
What did that mean? Was charm a way of saying Maria was manipulative? Even dishonest?
‘Did you know her well?’ Jemima asked. What had she to lose? The police were going to charge her if they didn’t have anyone else, no matter what Patrick did.
‘I believed so,’ Celia answered. Now she was smiling sadly, her thoughts clearly turned inward.
Jemima could not afford diplomacy. ‘But you had cause to reverse your opinion?’
Celia gave a very slight shrug of her thin shoulders. ‘I was surprised that she abandoned her husband and child. But I never had the opportunity to ask her why. How well does one ever know another person? You have to love without knowing, don’t you think?’ She looked at Jemima very directly, her gaze probing. ‘There are always things that are private, and should remain so.’ She was waiting for a reply.
‘Yes, I suppose there are,’ Jemima agreed.
‘When you are older, you will have secrets,’ Celia promised her. ‘That is one of the great burdens of a public life. Too many people know too much. One lives like a fish in one of those ornamental bowls.’
‘Goldfish . . .’ Jemima was struggling to understand the obliqueness of the conversation. She took another sandwich to give herself time to think.
Celia moved the plate a little nearer her.
‘It is the great drawback to political office, I think,’ she remarked.
Jemima was lost. ‘Political office? Has that something to do with Maria Cardew’s death?’
Celia’s eyes widened. ‘Oh my goodness, I hope not. I was merely making conversation. I wish I could offer you greater comfort. You came all this way from your own family, and now you seem to be caught up in our troubles, and I confess, I see no way out for you.’
Jemima felt the panic well up inside her. She was stupid to have imagined Celia was going to be any help. The poor woman was facing the end of her own manner of living. As soon as Brent took over from his father, Phinnie would take over from Celia, who would then have no function at all.
Jemima controlled herself with an effort. ‘I did not know Mrs Cardew,’ she said very levelly. ‘She was already dead when I found her.’
‘Poor Maria,’ Celia murmured, pain quite naked in her voice. ‘She always struggled, but mostly for other people.’
Jemima leaned forward. ‘Other people? What do you mean?’
‘So very idealistic,’ Celia said, not looking at Jemima but at some indefinable point on the far wall.
‘What kind of ideals?’ Maybe if she pressed hard enough Celia might tell her something that neither she nor Patrick could find out questioning people where Maria had lived. ‘It sounds . . . admirable. Could she have angered someone, do you think? One person’s ideals sometimes endanger someone else’s privileges.’ She was grasping desperately at straws.
‘Oh, indeed,’ Celia said heavily. ‘I’m afraid Harley did not agree with her. But of course he was not born when she was fighting her big battles. But lives don’t change so much.’
‘What battles?’ Jemima said a little huskily. Was this something real at last?
‘Thirty years ago.’ Celia avoided Jemima’s eyes.
Jemima’s heart sank. For a moment she had felt hope surge up.
‘Freedom for the slaves,’ Celia continued. ‘Real freedom, not just on a piece of paper. Even in the seventies and early eighties they found it very hard. There was so much bitterness here in New York. Never knew what it was like further south, except that it was worse.’
‘But Maria was white!’ Jemima protested.
‘Oh, yes,’ Celia agreed. ‘But she still fought for the blacks. Ran herself into quite a lot of danger. I don’t know a great deal about it, because my father was always very stern over such things. Just as my brother is, and Harley, of course. But you’ll know that because of his political stance.’
‘Political?’ Jemima was lost again.
‘Oh! Has he not told you?’ Celia seemed surprised. ‘Harley is expecting that Mr Roosevelt will appoint him, as soon as he is inaugurated in the New Year. I’m sure you know he just won the election last month.’
‘Really? I had no idea.’
Celia met her eyes, no amusement or deceit in them.
‘Oh, yes, very really indeed. Never doubt it.’
‘How . . . interesting,’ Jemima murmured, her mind racing. Could this possibly have anything to do with Maria’s death? Was Celia trying to tell her this, so obliquely that she could deny it later? Why? What did she know? Or was she deliberately leading Jemima astray?
She cleared her throat. This was an opportunity to learn more that she could not afford to pass by. ‘You think Mrs Cardew’s opinions were too radical?’
‘I?’ Celia said with surprise. ‘No. I admired her for them, as much as I understood what she was doing. I knew it could not succeed, and that it was dangerous for her.’ She hesitated so long Jemima thought she was not going to continue. Then suddenly she spoke again. ‘But I despised myself that I didn’t take the risk anyway.’
‘What was she doing?’ Jemima was perfectly aware that the question might be intrusive, but she had to try.
‘Helping black people in trouble to escape the consequences of raising their voices, trying to be like white people, own property, have opinions,’ Celia said. ‘After the end of the Civil War they didn’t do badly. But the resistance against change was too strong. The old ways came back again.’
‘She must have been very brave,’ Jemima said with awe.
‘And foolish,’ Celia ad
ded. ‘But I liked her for it.’
‘But Mr Albright didn’t?’
‘I really don’t know how much he knew,’ Celia answered, her voice lifting in surprise as if she had only just realised the fact.
‘And Mr Harley?’
Celia smiled. ‘Certainly not. He would be appalled. All he knew is that she had a certain reputation. I never thought he cared if it was deserved. Why don’t you try the cakes? They are one of Cook’s specialities.’
Jemima recognised that the discussion was closed. She took one of the cakes, and it was indeed delicious.
Dinner was long and wretched. Phinnie chattered about her wedding, and never once looked at Jemima. Harley talked about politics and Brent looked alternately happy and miserable. Mr Albright spoke to Celia about people Jemima did not know.
Jemima felt awkward remaining downstairs after dinner was finished, and the family retired to the sitting room. Phinnie sat close to Brent, as if she could not bear more distance between them than necessary.
Mr Albright senior sat in the largest armchair. Jemima imagined the very shape of it had moulded itself to his body. Perhaps his father had sat in it before him and his grandfather also. In time it would be Harley’s, who now stood by the mantelpiece, too restless to sit down.
Jemima took one of the smaller chairs, but after only a few minutes she rose to her feet again. Maybe she was running away, but she would rather have stood outside in the snow with Patrick Flannery than sit in this warm room with the stilted conversation.
‘It has been a long and interesting day,’ she said to Mr Albright. ‘Would you excuse me if I retire a little early?’
‘An excellent idea,’ Harley replied. ‘Good night, Miss Pitt.’ There was no warmth in his voice.
‘Good night, Miss Pitt,’ Celia echoed. ‘Sleep well.’
Jemima acknowledged the good wishes, then turned and walked out of the door, across the huge hall and up the stairs. She had just reached the landing when she was aware of someone behind her. She turned sharply and saw Phinnie a couple of yards behind her.
‘You’ve been asking about my mother,’ she accused, her voice harsh and bitter. ‘What are you trying to do? The police have been asking me questions, as if they thought I might have asked you to kill her, even paid you to do it!’
Jemima was stung by the injustice of it. ‘They will do,’ she retorted sharply. ‘They are bound to realise I didn’t do it. Why on earth would I?’
‘For me, of course,’ Phinnie responded.
Jemima was stunned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! Apart from the fact that we have known each other only a short while, why on earth would I do anything so terrible?’
‘So that when I marry Brent, I can pay you, of course!’ Phinnie replied. ‘Either in money, or by making sure you meet all the right people in New York. You are clever enough to have thought of that.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Jemima agreed. ‘And blackmail you for the rest of your life? Or would you, perhaps, be blackmailing me for the rest of mine?’
Phinnie gasped, her face pale. ‘You would, wouldn’t you?’
‘Well, I suppose if I’d killed poor Maria to stop her from bursting into your wedding and spoiling it, I would probably stoop to pretty well anything,’ Jemima said with anger close to despair. ‘But all I wanted to do was find her so Harley could pay her to stay away. He was afraid she might make a scene and embarrass everyone – ruin the family reputation and superiority over everyone else. And you never know, when Mr Roosevelt comes to consider him for high office, he might think you an inappropriate relative for a man in the public eye.’ She knew it would hurt Phinnie, and she meant it to. Phinnie had been willing enough to hurt her.
‘You . . . didn’t . . .’ Phinnie said slowly, the angry colour draining out of her face leaving her sickly pale.
‘No, of course I didn’t!’ Jemima snapped. She was about to turn away and go on to her bedroom when she realised that Phinnie’s amazement and relief were real. She had feared Jemima had killed Maria Cardew – which had to mean that she had not done it herself, nor did she know who had. ‘I saw her once, for a moment in Central Park,’ she said gently. ‘When we were following her, and she turned to look back at the snow on the trees. She had such joy at the beauty of them that for a moment she too was beautiful. The next time I saw her she was dead.’
Phinnie’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I don’t want to like her,’ she whispered. ‘She left me! It took me all my life, until I met Brent, to stop wanting her to come back and explain to me what was more important to her than staying with me.’
Jemima wanted to put her arms around her, be even – for an instant at least – the sister she did not have. But it was too soon. It would seem like pity.
‘That is what I am trying to find out,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll start again tomorrow morning. I promise.’
Phinnie nodded, too close to losing control to speak.
The next day was bitter. The wind cut like the edge of a knife and there was ice in the breath of it.
Jemima would rather have stayed inside, even at the Albright mansion, but she had very little time left. After Christmas she would face trial, and then she would be able to do nothing. The memory of the prison always hovered at the edges of her mind like an encroaching darkness. Was it time she sent a telegram to her father and asked him to come? What could he do here anyway? He had no authority in America.
Stop panicking! Of course he would come, and he’d find a way to learn the truth and prove it.
She increased her pace, footsteps crunching in the snow. She was hardly even aware of how cold it was. A woman passed her on the pavement, walking briskly, bent forward and huddled into her coat. The man a few steps behind her had his hat jammed on his head and his scarf half over his face.
An automobile passed them all, the driver sitting up rigidly, having difficulty keeping the snow from blinding the narrow glass windshields. She smiled to herself, happy to be walking.
At last she reached the coffee shop, her hands numb so she could hardly grasp the door handle. A man opened it for her and she thanked him. Inside she looked around for Patrick. When she saw him her heart lifted and she found herself smiling as he stood up and came over to her.
‘Are you all right?’ he said anxiously. ‘I wish you could have stayed inside today . . .’
‘There isn’t time,’ she said simply. ‘And I have a lot to tell you.’
He guided her to the seat where he had been waiting, putting his arm around her shoulders. Even a day ago she would have moved away. Today she let it be. It was comfortable and she was willing to admit it. He held the chair for her, then ordered hot coffee, and more for himself.
Warming her hands on the mug, the chatter of all manner of languages around her, she told him what Celia had said about Harley and his ambitions, about Maria Cardew and her rescue of former slaves in trouble, and then Phinnie’s painful suspicion that Jemima had killed Maria.
‘So you are sure she didn’t?’ he said immediately. There was no time to be less than frank.
‘Yes, I am. We still need to know more about Maria. If she risked her life helping black people who used to be slaves, she will have made enemies.’
He smiled with wry, sad humour. ‘I know it’s 1904, but not everything has changed. Old wounds are slow to heal. We’re said to be “a melting pot”, but there’s a lot that hasn’t melted yet. Did Celia say anything about Sara Godwin?’
‘No. Patrick . . .’ She hated the thought but it must be faced. ‘Do you think Sara Godwin could have killed her? Are we looking for something much further away than we need to? Perhaps Maria’s death had nothing to do with the Albrights at all, but was because an old enmity of some sort between the two women?’
There was regret in his face. ‘It could even be that whoever killed her mistook her for Sara Godwin. I’ve been asking around to find anyone who knew them a bit better, and another woman in the same building said they were very careful, as if they were afrai
d of something. Sara Godwin said a man had been following her, and she was frightened he knew where she lived. I asked people, but she hadn’t described him.’
‘He could be anyone,’ she said with a wave of hopelessness overwhelming her. ‘How can we even look for him?’
Patrick reached across the table and put his hand over hers, holding her when she tried to pull away. She stopped pulling. His touch was warm and strong.
‘I don’t need to find him to prove he existed,’ he told her. ‘Two witnesses, independent of each other, and a little more about her past, will be enough to prove he could have killed her. We have to know what kind of woman she was, and that it was believable that he mistook Maria for her. They did look alike. That much I know already.’
‘Will it be enough?’ she said anxiously. ‘Won’t they still think it’s me, because I’m there and we don’t know anything about this man?’
‘I won’t let them,’ he promised.
She looked away. Did she care more that he believed her and not for a moment did he think she was guilty, or that she still might face trial for murder and not be able to prove her innocence?
He interrupted her thoughts. ‘Finish your coffee. We have a lot to do.’ He said it gently, but it was an instruction, almost an order.
Towards the end of the day they met with an old man, nearly blind, who had known Sara well. He had been a cobbler. He knew everyone’s feet.
Jemima and Patrick sat with him in his small tenement room sharing hot food that Patrick had bought from a shop in the narrow street opposite. It was very savoury meat cooked and then wrapped in leaves. He told her they were Russian immigrants and they had told him its name, but he couldn’t now pronounce it. It was delicious, and Jemima told him so.
