Bethlehem Road - Anne Perry [89]
What about Helen? Did she love her husband enough, want to keep him enough to commit such crimes, first for him, then to protect herself? Or him?
He spent all day pursuing finances. First he found the record of the sale of Helen Carfax’s painting, then he traced further back to see if she had sold other things and found that she had—small sketches, trinkets, a carving or two—before she’d sold the painting whose absence he had noticed. There was no way of proving what she had used the money for without searching her own personal accounts, and possibly not then. It could have been for gowns and perfumes, to make herself more attractive to a wandering husband, or for jewelry, or perhaps for medical expenses, or presents for James or even for someone else. Or maybe she gambled—some women did.
He reached home a little after six, tired and dispirited. It was not only the difficulty of the case, it was the thought of promotion, of guiding other men rather than doing the work himself. But he must never let Charlotte know his feelings or it would rob her of any pleasure in the rewards it would bring. He must disguise his feeling of loss.
She was in the kitchen finishing the children’s tea and preparing his. The whole room was warm, softly glowing from the gas lamps on the wall as the light faded in the sky outside. The wooden table was scrubbed clean and there was a smell of soap and hot bread and some kind of fragrant steam he could not place.
He went to her without speaking and took her in his arms, holding her closely, kissing her, ignoring her wet hands and the flour on her apron. And after her first surprise she responded warmly, even passionately.
He got it over with straightaway, before he had time to think or regret.
“I’m to be promoted! Drummond said as soon as this case is finished. It will mean far more money, and influence, and position!”
She held him even harder, burying her face against his shoulder. “Thomas, that’s wonderful! You deserve it—you’ve deserved it for ages! Will you still be out working on cases?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll be safer too!”
He had done it, told her without a shadow, without her suspecting anything but joy and pride. He felt a moment of terrible isolation. She did not even know what it cost him; she had no idea how intensely he would rather be on the street, with people, feeling the dirt and the pain and the reality of it. It was the only way to understand.
But that was foolish. Why else was he telling her like this, but precisely because he did not want her to sense his misgivings! He must not spoil it now. He pushed her away a little and smiled at her.
She searched his face, and the brilliance in her eyes turned to questioning.
“What is it? What is wrong?”
“Just this case,” he answered. “The further I look into it the less I seem to have hold of.”
“Tell me more about it. Tell me about this latest victim,” she invited him. “I’ll get your dinner. Gracie’s upstairs with the children. You can explain it to me while we eat.” And taking his agreement for granted she took the lid off the pan and stirred it once or twice, filling the kitchen with a delicious odor. Then she lifted plates out of the warming oven and served mutton stew with thick leeks and slices of potato and sweet white turnips and a touch of dried rosemary that gave it sharpness and flavor.
He told her all that he had omitted on his previous, rather scattered accounts, which had been more emotional than logical, together with the little of value he had learned since and the skeletal knowledge he had of Cuthbert Sheridan.
When he had finished she sat for several minutes in silence, looking down at her empty plate. When at last she did look up there was a deep color in her cheeks and the half shame-faced look of embarrassment and defiance he had seen so many times before.
“How?” he said quietly. “How are you involved? It’s nothing to do with us, any of us. And Emily’s in Italy—isn’t she?