Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [40]
Vanderley ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he was calm again, in control.
“No—he’s right, Mortimer. He needs to know more than that. There are tens of thousands of rooms around London. He’ll never find it, unless he’s lucky. But there may be something he can find, somebody—somebody who knew Jerome. I don’t suppose poor Arthur was the only one.” He looked down and his face was heavy, his voice suddenly even quieter. “I mean—the man was in bondage to a weakness.”
“Yes, of course,” Swynford said. “But that’s the police’s job, thank God; not ours. We don’t need to concern ourselves with whatever else he needs—or why.” He turned to Pitt. “You’ve talked to my son—I would have thought that was enough, but if it isn’t, then you must pursue whatever else you want—in the streets, or wherever. I don’t know what else you think there is.”
“There must be something more.” Pitt felt confused, almost foolish. He knew so much—and so little: explanations that fitted—a growing desperation he could understand, a loneliness, a sense of having been cheated. Would it be enough to hang a man, to hang Maurice Jerome for the murder of Arthur Waybourne? “Yes, sir,” he said aloud. “Yes—we’ll go and look, everywhere we can.”
“Good.” Swynford nodded. “Good. Well, get on with it! Good day, Inspector.”
“Good day, sir.” Pitt walked to the door and opened it silently. He went out into the hall to collect his hat and coat from the footman.
Charlotte had sent an urgent letter to Dominic to ask him to hasten his efforts for a meeting with Esmond Vanderley. She had little idea what she expected to learn, but it was more important than ever that she try.
Today, at last, she had received a reply that there was an afternoon party of sorts to which, if she wished, Dominic would escort her, although he doubted she would find any enjoyment in it whatsoever; and did she possess anything she cared to wear for the occasion, because it was fashionable and a little risqué? He would call by in his carriage at four o’clock, in case she chose to go.
Her mind whirled. Of course she chose to go! But what gown had she that would not disgrace him? Fashionable and risqué! Emily was still out of town, and so could not be borrowed from, even had there been time. She raced upstairs and pulled open her wardrobe to see what it presented. At first it was hopeless. Her own clothes were all, at best, last year’s styles, or the year before. At worst, they were plain sensible—and one could hardly say less for a gown than that! Whoever wished to seem sensible, of all things?
There was the lavender of Great-Aunt Vespasia’s that she had been given for a funeral. With black shawl and hat it had been half mourning, and suitable. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was definitely magnificent and very formal—a duchess’s gown, and an elderly duchess at that! But if she were to cut off the high neck and make it daringly low, take out the sleeves below the shoulder drape, it would look far more modem—in fact a little avant-garde!
Brilliant! Emily would be proud of her! She seized the nail scissors from the dresser and began before she could reconsider. If she were to stop and think what she was doing, she would lose her nerve.
It was completed in time. She coiled her hair high (if only Gracie were a lady’s maid!), bit her lips and pinched her cheeks to give herself a little more color, and splashed on some lavender water. When Dominic arrived, she sailed out, head high, teeth clenched, looking neither to right nor left, and certainly not at Dominic to see what he thought of her.
In the carriage, he opened his mouth to comment, then smiled faintly, a little confused, and closed it again.
Charlotte prayed that she was not making a complete fool of herself.
The party was like nothing she had ever attended before. It was not in one room but in a series of rooms, all lavishly decorated in styles she considered a trifle obtrusive, with vague suggestions of the last courts of France in one and of the