Callander Square - Anne Perry [35]
Campbell’s mouth turned down at the corners.
“Take your point,” he said with a slight rasp. “Could be difficult. Even if people don’t believe it, they’ll pass it on. Find ourselves snubbed in clubs, laughed at.” His face darkened fiercely. “Bloody damned nuisance! Some idiotic girl who—” his anger died out as suddenly. “Way of the world. Poor little bitch. Still, what did you come to me about, except to commiserate?”
Reggie drew a deep breath.
“Commiseration’s not much use—”
“None at all,” Campbell agreed.
“Better to prevent it before it happens.”
Campbell’s face betrayed interest for the first time.
“What are you suggesting, Reggie?”
“A discreet word, with the butler or housekeeper, to speak to the rest of the servants. See that one or the other of them is present every time this police fellow interviews any of them. Get them to make sure nothing—foolish—is said. Natural enough, what? Not to let a young servant be bullied. Got to protect them, eh?”
Campbell smiled with harsh amusement.
“Why, Reggie, I never suspected you of such subtlety—or such common sense.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“My dear idiot, my household is already aware that loose talk would cost them their livelihoods: but I admit it would be an added protection to make sure a butler or housekeeper is present if this, what’s-his-name—Pitt—comes back again. Personally I think they’ll probably drop it after a reasonable show of trying. After all, to whom does it really matter if some servant girl has two children stillborn? It’s hardly worth raising hell in an area like this. He’ll know that he’ll find out nothing that matters, and offend a lot of people who could make life damned difficult for him, if he gives them cause. Don’t get yourself upset, Reggie. They’ll run around to give the impression of intent, then quietly let it die. Do you want a glass of port?”
Reggie took a moment for the idea to seep through him with its relief: then he realized Campbell had offered him the port at last.
“Yes,” he accepted graciously. “Thank you, very civil of you.”
“Not at all,” Campbell smiled to himself and walked away to the side table to fetch the decanter.
Augusta had noticed Christina’s indisposition; and at first she had thought nothing of it, beyond a natural sympathy. It was easy enough to eat or drink something which did not agree with one. Then on the appalling discovery of Christina in the arms of the wretched footman, Max, the incident came back to her mind with rather more anxiety. When the indisposition occurred again a week later, and she heard from the lady’s maid that Christina was to remain in her bed for the morning, she felt something considerably more like alarm.
She did not wish General Balantyne to know anything about it—he would be entirely useless if indeed there were such a crisis as her worst fears framed, and if there were not, there was no purpose in alarming him. They were at the breakfast table when she was informed, and after a moment’s silent panic, she thanked the woman civilly and bade her return to Christina and care for her, then she requested the general to pass her the orange conserve to spread upon her toast.
“Pity,” the general said quietly, passing across the jar. “Poor girl. Hope it’s nothing serious. Want to send for the doctor? Always ask Freddie to slip over, if she doesn’t want a fuss.”
“Nothing he can do for a chill on the stomach,” she replied smoothly. Heavens above, the last thing she wanted now was a doctor! “Charming as he is, he can’t change the weather. Lots of pestilence of one sort or another in the autumn. I shall have cook make her an herbal tea. That will do as much good as anything. No doubt it will cure itself in a day or two.”
He looked at her with slight surprise, but rather than argue, continued with his deviled kidneys, bacon, eggs, and toast.