Death on Blackheath

by Anne Perry

  “I am pleased so many people have come,” Rosalind said, glancing around at the steadily increasing crowd. “I admit, I had feared there would be embarrassingly little support.”

  “We will all leave grateful that our spring, if chilly, is not nearly as harsh as it could be,” Emily agreed.

  Ailsa lifted her graceful shoulders a little. “The north has a clean beauty that many people admire,” she said. She was not exactly contradicting Emily, but there was a coolness in her voice.

  “Do you know the north well?” Emily asked with enthusiasm.

  For a moment Ailsa hesitated, as though she were unprepared for the question.

  “I have traveled north,” she conceded. “It has great beauty, and one becomes acclimatized to the cold. Of course, summer is not cold at all, and brighter than here … quite often.”

  “So you will be familiar with places like the ones Dr. Arbuthnott will be mentioning,” Emily concluded. She turned to Rosalind. “Have you been there also?”

  Rosalind smiled. “Oh, no. I’m afraid I have never been farther north than Paris, which I find a marvelous city.”

  “Paris is south from here, my dear,” Ailsa said gently.

  Charlotte looked at her face. She was smiling, but there was no warmth in it, in spite of her tone. If she had liked Rosalind, Charlotte knew that she would not have made the observation at all.

  Rosalind colored very slightly. “I know that. Perhaps I would have been clearer if I had said ‘in Europe.’ ”

  Several appropriate remarks occurred to Charlotte, which would have put Ailsa in her place, but she refrained from making them.

  “I would love to travel,” she said instead. “Perhaps one day I will. But I still find people more interesting than even the most marvelous cities. And I am grateful that there are men like Dr. Arbuthnott who will bring us photographs and magic lantern images to show the beauty of the places I will never visit.”

  “A lifetime’s worth of them,” Ailsa observed.

  Charlotte pretended to misunderstand her. She was irritated at having her own life dismissed in such a way, but more offended for Rosalind, because to judge from her face, she felt the cut more keenly.

  “Really? He did not look more than forty-five in the photographs. But perhaps they are not recent?”

  Ailsa stared at her, then quite suddenly a flash of amusement lit her face, almost appreciation. Charlotte realized she respected someone who would fight back. She smiled at Ailsa with all the considerable charm she could call on when she wished, and saw the recognition of it, and a quick acknowledgment.

  They took their seats and an expectant hush settled over the room. Dr. Arbuthnott appeared, to applause, and the lecture began.

  Certainly what he had to say was interesting, and to Charlotte completely unfamiliar, but she could not afford to turn her attention to it fully. She and Emily had finally decided to take seats on the aisle immediately behind those of Ailsa and Rosalind. This gave her the opportunity to watch them both, while still appearing to be fully intent upon the lecturer.

  Of course it would be ill-mannered to whisper to each other when Dr. Arbuthnott was actually speaking, but it seemed to Charlotte completely natural, and even expected, that at suitable moments one would speak to one’s companion to remark on something of particular beauty or surprise. She did so to Emily without giving it thought.

  Then she faced forward again, and began to study the two women in front of her. Both sat straight up, as governesses would have taught them. Beauty was a gift; deportment was acquired, as was graceful speech both in timbre and pronunciation. Having something of interest to say was, of course, quite another matter.

  Rosalind inclined very slightly towards Ailsa, and murmured to her, but so quietly that Charlotte did not hear any of it.

  Ailsa nodded, but did not reply. She did not lean her body towards Rosalind. A moment later she looked around the audience as discreetly as was possible, as if searching for someone she knew. Apparently she did not find them, because she did so again at the next opportunity, without being obvious about it. Charlotte was very curious as to who it might be.

  She learned who later in the evening, after the lecture itself was finished and refreshments were offered. Many people congratulated Dr. Arbuthnott and asked him further questions about the power and beauty of the far northern oceans.

  Emily was in close conversation with Rosalind, and Charlotte had decided to follow behind Ailsa as closely as she could without being obvious. She made herself appear to be looking for an acquaintance, and felt as if she were behaving like a complete eccentric. She hoped she would never have to meet any of those people again socially. Possibly if they thought she was peculiar enough, they would take trouble to avoid her?

  She was abundantly rewarded. She had walked quite casually under an elaborate archway she had seen Ailsa disappear through, presumably seeking a little respite from the stuffiness and intense conversation of the room. It led to a side hall, a minor gallery that was beautifully proportioned, light pouring in from a large window.

  Charlotte did not want a confrontation. It would be far too clumsy, and unmistakable that she had seen Ailsa go in and chosen to follow her. She dared not even go much farther, because there were several very fine mirrors on the wall, and her passing in front of one would catch anybody’s eye.

  But as she stopped abruptly, she realized she had inadvertently placed herself exactly where she could see Ailsa’s reflection, in a mirror to her side, giving a clear profile angled in a farther mirror beyond Charlotte’s line of sight. She could not take her eyes from it! Ailsa was standing quite still beside Edom Talbot. From their closeness to each other, and the look on Talbot’s face, there was no one else in the room. He moved a little behind her so Charlotte could see only his arms as they gently curved around Ailsa’s waist, and his shoulders above hers. She was tall, but he was several inches taller again. He was not a handsome man, but he was in a way distinguished, and quite unmistakable.

  Ailsa did not move. She was smiling slightly, as though not only pleased but faintly amused.

  Talbot’s hands moved up a little from her waist, gradually inch by inch until he caressed her breasts. He did it with some confidence, as if he did not expect to be denied.

  Charlotte studied Ailsa’s face and saw her expression freeze. The gesture had not surprised her, but she found it distasteful. Charlotte could feel it as if it were her own body being touched. She saw the muscles in Ailsa’s neck and throat clench as if she almost stopped breathing.

  Charlotte’s mind raced. Why did she endure it? She did not believe for an instant that Ailsa did not know how to deal completely effectively with such a thing. She had only to turn around sharply and confront him, or—even more simply than that—take a very carefully judged step back and put her heel on the instep of his foot, and then her weight. She was a handsomely built woman. The pain would be excruciating. She could pretend it was accidental, and they would both know it was entirely on purpose. And yet she did not.

  Talbot bent his head and began to kiss her gently along the back of her neck and shoulder. She seemed to struggle to master her feelings. He could not see her face, only Charlotte could, and she read the revulsion in it as if it had been her own.

  Then Ailsa turned and kissed him back quickly and pulled away. She said something, and Talbot smiled back. They began to move.

  Charlotte dared stay no longer. There were too many mirrors. She could not afford to be caught staring. One meeting of the eyes and she would never be able to deny it.

  Charlotte had no opportunity to tell Emily until they were in the carriage again on the way home, moving swiftly through the brightly lit traffic.

  “What?” Emily said incredulously. “You must be mistaken! Are you sure it was Ailsa?”

  “Yes, of course I am. Apart from her gown, which was quite individual, I could see her face!”

  “Then maybe it wasn’t Talbot! Could Dudley Kynaston have arrived, and w
e didn’t see him?” Emily persisted.

  “Dudley? She’s the widow of the brother he adored!” Charlotte protested.

  “Don’t be naïve!” Emily said, more with disbelief than criticism. “Bennett is dead! What greater compliment could the devoted Dudley give him than to step into his shoes?”

  “That’s disgusting!” Charlotte retorted. “Would you be as quick into my shoes?”

  Emily smiled. “Oh, I don’t know. I think Thomas is rather sweet! And he’d never be boring! Would he?”

  Charlotte realized she was being teased just in time to avoid making a fool of herself, and perhaps making a remark whose sting would linger far more than she intended.

  “He snores,” she said.

  Emily looked crushed. “Does he?”

  “No!”

  Emily sighed. “Jack does. He looks quite beautiful asleep, with those eyelashes. But he does snore—sometimes.”

  Charlotte swiveled around. “Emily, were you serious that Ailsa could be the mistress that Dudley is so desperate to keep quiet about?”

  Emily was immediately sober again. “Well, it would make sense, wouldn’t it? It isn’t that it’s so terribly scandalous, so much as it is a desecration of his adored dead brother.” She stopped. “Except that Rosalind told me Ailsa never really got over Bennett. She’s still in love with him.”

  “Perhaps Dudley reminds her of him?” Charlotte thought aloud. “And in a weak moment, a lonely one, she slipped up?”

  “What? And now she can’t say no?” Emily asked incredulously. “Yes, she could. I’ll wager Ailsa could say no to anyone—and mean it. If she’s playing along, then there’s something she wants.”

  “Except that this wasn’t Dudley, it really wasn’t,” Charlotte insisted. “He was a similar height, but it was very definitely Edom Talbot. I saw his face. It was a reflection, but it was perfectly plain. She allowed him to touch her in a very intimate way, but she had to force herself to.”

  “Talbot,” Emily said thoughtfully. For a little while she was silent. “There are so many possibilities,” she said at last. “We need to discuss this. Come home with me and we’ll talk. It’s still early. I’ll have the carriage take you home after. Please?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte said instantly. It did not matter whether it was really to discuss whatever they might have observed this evening, or simply because Emily did not want to go home alone—or even worse, to Jack being silent and withdrawn. Possibly he would even be tense about the situation with Kynaston, and therefore irritable. The very fact that he was not sharing his anxiety with Emily was the cause of hurt, whatever it was about. He probably thought he was protecting her. Men could be incredibly stupid sometimes, trip over the obvious, and still not see it.

  But then Emily ought to know that by now, and not make an issue out of something that was not meant to be one.

  Or on the other hand, perhaps Jack was drifting out of love, and a far bigger change was needed. And Charlotte was certainly not wise enough to answer that question. But she would go home with Emily and stay at least an hour, if Emily wished it.

  “DO YOU THINK IT really could be all about Bennett?” Charlotte asked when they were sitting beside the fire in Emily’s drawing room, which perfectly reflected her tastes and character in its rich golds and pinks, the flashes of red, and the paintings on the walls.

  “Why not?” Emily asked. “He seems to have been reasonable, from what Rosalind says. And actually very nice. He was the handsomer of the two brothers, and, at the time he died, he was considered the one with the greatest promise.”

  Charlotte thought for a minute, knowing Emily was watching her. “That sounds a little difficult to live with,” she said at last. “I wouldn’t entirely blame Dudley if his feelings about Bennett were a trifle mixed. Although Thomas did say he still keeps a portrait of Bennett in his study. He seemed to be devoted. He admired him enormously and in a way strove to be like him, even to finish some of the work Bennett began …” Charlotte shivered. “But to think that he wanted to complete it by having an affair with Bennett’s widow?”

  “Well, it’s not impossible, is it?”

  “No …”

  “In fact it’s not completely impossible that he started the affair before Bennett was dead!” Emily continued.

  “But if Bennett were all that marvelous, why would Ailsa be willing to betray him, and with his own brother?” Charlotte argued.

  Emily pulled her mouth into a grimace. “Not all men who seem handsome and clever and charming are all that interesting when you get to know them … well …”

  “You mean in bed?”

  “Of course I do.” Then Emily laughed. “Oh dear! I’m not talking about Jack. That did sound a bit clumsy, didn’t it?”

  Charlotte was too relieved to argue. “Yes,” she agreed. “It definitely did! But I accept your denial. Do you really think it could go that far back? That’s … years! Poor Rosalind. No wonder she looks a bit … crumpled.”

  The shadow passed over Emily’s face again. “She does, doesn’t she?”

  She hesitated. “Do I?”

  Charlotte had walked straight into a trap—perhaps not an intentional one, but very complete nonetheless. And Emily would see a lie, or an evasion instantly. She always had.

  “Compared with the way you usually are, yes, you do,” she said, hating each word as it came from her mouth. Had Emily wanted her to lie, even if neither of them believed it? It was too late now. She had to add something, retrieve hope from it. “Because you believe Jack has fallen out of love with you,” she added. “That doesn’t make it true! There are people who believe the world is flat! They even burned people for it, once.”

  “Actually several times,” Emily said with an attempt at a smile.

  “What’s the point in burning anyone several times?” Charlotte asked without taking a breath. “Seems a little excessive, doesn’t it?”

  Emily laughed in spite of herself. “Are you trying to make me feel better?”

  “I’m trying to make you see sense.” Charlotte poured some tea for each of them. It was Earl Grey, very subtle, the exact opposite of the conversation.

  “I’ve had another thought,” Emily went on. “It’s pretty awful! But what if Dudley and Ailsa really fell in love with each other way back when she was married to Bennett? And what if it’s far worse than that? Are we absolutely certain that Bennett’s death was natural? He was awfully young to die, when he wasn’t fragile before.”

  Charlotte was stunned. “You mean that Dudley and Ailsa killed him? That was the secret that Kitty found out? How on earth would she?”

  “I don’t know! Ladies’ maids find out all kinds of things. I’d hate even to imagine what mine knows about me. In some ways, more than Jack does. Even more than you do!”

  Charlotte followed the thought. “Then why is Rosalind still alive and well? Or does she know, and has some kind of way of keeping herself safe? For heaven’s sake, why bother? What on earth is a husband worth if he would so much rather be somewhere else?”

  “Revenge? I don’t know.” Emily leaned forward. “Maybe they didn’t kill Bennett. Maybe he found out and was so brokenhearted he committed suicide, and they covered it up? I’m sure a decent doctor could be persuaded to be discreet.”

  “And that’s the scandal?” Charlotte thought about it for several moments. “That would be pretty awful, wouldn’t it? What a betrayal! What a rotten tragedy. Dudley couldn’t afford to let that be known. It’s so … ugly!” She shut her eyes as if she could make the thought disappear. “I wonder if you go on loving someone after that, or if you end up hating them because every time you think of them, even see their face, you are reminded of what you have become because of your feeling for them. Don’t you think a really good love should make you strive to be the very best you can? The noblest, the bravest, the gentlest?”

  Emily stared at her. “Yes,” she said very quietly. Slowly her shoulders eased as the tension slipped away from her
. “Yes. I do.” She smiled. “I’m glad you came this evening, and that you said what you did. I want to think about myself, for a little while, and what I need to do. We’ll go on with the wretched Kynastons tomorrow, or the next day.” She reached for the bell to ask the footman to fetch the carriage round to take Charlotte home.

  CHAPTER

  15

  PITT HAD DEBATED THE issue briefly with himself as to whether he should repeat to Stoker the information he had received from Carlisle. Doing so would require that he also tell him all that he knew about Carlisle. That included the history between them, or as much of it as was required to have Stoker understand why Pitt trusted him, and the nature of the debt he felt towards him.

  He realized the following morning that in fact the conflict in his mind was only as to how he would do it, what words he would use, and what he could leave out. It had begun with Carlisle owing a debt to Pitt for his silence in the Resurrection Row affair. Then, over the years, the balance had shifted the other way. Now, with the rescue from Talbot, the weight was on the other side: Pitt owed the greater debt.

  It nagged at Pitt, whether Carlisle had orchestrated that rescue for that specific gain. Granted, it was unlike the man Pitt had known. He would have abhorred such manipulation. Then what for? It surely had to do with debt—and honor.

  There was a sharp tap on the door. He had barely answered it when it opened and Stoker came in, closing it behind him. He looked scrubbed and eager, but there were dark lines of tiredness in his face, hollows around the eyes. He had pursued this case as if something he had learned about the missing woman had made her particularly real to him.

  But then Stoker was a man who did not do anything in half-measure. If he would have denied caring about the woman and said it was simply the best way to do the job, he would have been wrong: it was both.