Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [110]
“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “You are quite right. That is definitely the right thing to do. I shall have to find out the details from Thomas. He didn’t really tell the a lot yesterday. I suppose he thought it would upset me.”
Emily looked at her through her eyelashes. “I can’t imagine why,” she said sarcastically.
Charlotte ignored the remark, and stood up. “Well, what are we going to do today? What is Aunt Vespasia planning to do?” she said, tweaking her skirt to make it fall properly.
Emily stood up, too, patted her lips with her napkin, and replaced it on the plate. She reached for the bell to summon the maid.
“We are going to visit Mr. Carlisle, whom I find I like—you didn’t tell me how nice he was! From him I hope we shall learn some more facts—about rates of pay in sweatshops and things—so we know why young women cannot live on them and so take to the streets. Did you know that people who make matches get a disease that rots away their bones till half their faces are destroyed?”
“Yes, I did. Thomas told me about it a long time ago. What about Aunt Vespasia?”
“She is taking luncheon with an old friend, the Duchess of somewhere or other, but someone everybody listens to—I don’t think they dare ignore her! Apparently, she knows absolutely everyone, even the Queen, and hardly anybody knows the Queen these days, since Prince Albert died.”
The maid came in, and Emily told her to order the carriage to be ready in half an hour; then she was to clear the table. No one would be home until late afternoon.
“We shall take luncheon at Deptford,” Emily said, answering Charlotte’s look of surprise. “Or else we shall go without.” She surveyed Charlotte’s figure with a mixture of envy and distaste. “A little self-denial will not harm us in the least. And we shall inquire of the Deptford policemen as to the state of the body of Albie Frobisher. Perhaps we may even be permitted to see it.”
“Emily! You can’t! Whatever reason could we give for such a bizarre thing? Ladies do not go to view the corpses of prostitutes pulled out of the river! They wouldn’t allow us.”
“You will tell them who you are,” Emily replied, crossing the hall and beginning up the stairs so they could prepare their appearance for the day. “And I shall tell them who I am, and what my purpose is. I am collecting information on social conditions because it is desired that there should be reform.”
“Is it?” Charlotte was not put off; it was merely a remark. “I thought it wasn’t. That is why we must excite people’s sympathy—and anger.”
“It is desired by me,” Emily replied with literal truth. “That is sufficient for a policeman in Deptford!”
Somerset Carlisle received them without surprise. Apparently, Emily had had the forethought to warn him of their coming, and he was at home with the fire piled high and hot chocolate prepared. The study was littered with papers, and in the best chair a long, lean black cat with topaz eyes lay stretched, blinking unconcernedly. It seemed to have no intention of moving even when Emily nearly sat on it. It simply allowed her to push it to one side, then rearranged itself across her knee. Carlisle was so accustomed to the creature he did not even notice.
Charlotte sat in the chair near the fire, determined that Emily should not dictate this conversation.
“Albie Frobisher has been murdered,” she said before Emily had time to approach the subject with any delicacy.” He was strangled and put in the river. Now we shall never be able to question him again to see if he changes his testimony at all. But Emily has pointed out”—she must be fair, or she would make a fool of herself—“that his death will be an excellent tool to engage the sympathy of the people whose influence we wish for.”
Carlisle’s face showed his disgust at the event, and an unusually personal anger.