Callander Square - Anne Perry [78]
Emily would have quarreled with that; Charlotte was charming only when she meant it, and she doubted Sophie would bring out the best in her, but that hardly mattered now. She smiled devastatingly at Sophie, and took her leave, her heart singing in triumph.
Her prayers were answered, and the following day was cold and dry. She duly picked Charlotte up from her house before Charlotte had even finished her luncheon, and proceeded at a great pace to Callander Square, explaining her mission to Charlotte on the way, and the necessity for such precipitate speed. She did not entirely trust Sophie not to creep over on her own, and thus discover whatever there might be to find, before Emily and Charlotte got there. She would not have gone in the morning, because it was still rather wet and icebound, but this afternoon she might well think to slip over without Emily, and trust to not being caught at it.
They arrived at Callander Square and alighted from the carriage, bidding the coachman and footman remain where they were. They announced themselves to Sophie, who was ready waiting with her outdoor boots on and a cloak in the footman’s hands. Within five minutes they were at the garden entrance to the unoccupied house. It took the weight of the three of them to push it open, so long had it lain shut.
They hesitated on the step.
The garden inside was motionless and cold, trees rimed in frost, path stones overgrown with mosses, and slimy. There were dead leaves on the grass and rotting deep on the flower beds. If there was anything alive, it was asleep till spring.
“A garden shouldn’t be like this,” Charlotte said quietly. “Somebody must have laid it out carefully once, and people walked and talked to each other here.”
“Helena Doran and somebody,” Emily said practically. “Let’s go in.”
Feet soundless on the wet leaves, they moved reluctantly inside, Charlotte pulling the door behind them to hide their presence. They followed the path gingerly, afraid of slipping on the greasy stones. It skirted round the house and then disappeared into grass at the back. The lawn was soggy, and again covered with leaves. Halfway down there was a thatched, wooden summer house, roof collapsing. Obviously a multitude of birds had tweaked and stolen from it over the years.
“There,” Emily said triumphantly. “That is where lovers would meet.” And she hurried across the squelching grass toward it, her skirts catching in the twigs and leaves. Charlotte caught up with her, but Sophie stepped more gingerly from stone to stone round the remnants of the path.
Charlotte and Emily rounded the corner of the summer house and peered inside. It was very dilapidated, thatch hanging low across the ceiling, several of the seats rotted and fallen through.
“Oh dear,” Emily said disappointedly. “I wonder if all this could have happened in only two years.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Charlotte said from behind her. “Don’t forget, this is January. In the summer it would all look quite different. The trees would have leaves on them, there might be flowers and birds. It would be more like a secret garden. They wouldn’t care if it were a little neglected.”
“A little!”
“More to the point,” Charlotte stared round, “do you see anything that makes you think it might have been used? She might have dropped a handkerchief, or something, or easily torn a little piece from a dress. There are certainly enough rough pieces around.”
They both began to look, and Sophie joined them. After several minutes they satisfied themselves there was nothing to discover, and Charlotte and Emily went out of the other door toward the back of the garden. Sophie remained behind, not having searched thoroughly herself.
Past the bushes Charlotte stopped stark, and Emily bumped into her.
“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded crossly, then stared over Charlotte’s shoulder, and felt all the warmth drain out of her body.
They were at the side of a small lawn under a great tree. From one of the branches hung a garden swing, and on it, skeletal fingers