Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [104]
The other possibility, occurring to him even as he walked along the miserable streets towards Tortoise Lane, was that this Clarabelle Mapes was an abortionist, and Sybilla had procured her address for Tassie—that it was after a hasty, ill-done operation that Charlotte had seen Tassie’s return in the night. And what she had mistaken for a look of joy had in fact been a grimace of pain, mixed with intense relief at being safe, back in her own house and relieved of an intolerable disgrace.
It was an unpleasant thought, and he hoped with surprising depth that this was not true. But he knew the frailties of nature well enough to accept that it was not impossible.
The other answer stemmed from George’s affair with Sybilla—William as the wounded husband, in spite of Eustace’s claim that he had wanted to divorce Sybilla until he knew of the child. But Pitt did not believe William March would have killed his unborn child, no matter how furious he was at his wife’s infidelity. And Pitt did not yet know how far that had gone. It could have been no more than vanity and a stupid exhibition of power.
Or was the child Eustace’s, and not William’s at all?
No. If that were so and William knew it, surely he would have killed Eustace, not George, and perhaps felt himself justified. And there would certainly be many who, whatever their public pronouncements, would privately agree with him.
And the pregnancy predated George’s arrival at Cardington Crescent, so he could not be blamed by anyone.
That left Emily and Jack Radley. They might have acted either together or separately, for love, or greed—or both. Emily he refused to think of until there was no other possibility and it was forced upon him; and if that happened, please God Charlotte would know it for herself and he would not have to be the one to tell her.
He turned the last corner and was in Tortoise Lane. It was as shabby and squalid as the others, indistinguishable except to those who understood the labyrinth and could smell and taste in the thick air their own familiar row of crooked jetties and angled roofs. There were two grubby children of about four or five years playing with stones outside number 3. Pitt stopped and watched them for a moment. They had scratched a pattern of squares on the pavement, including about ten of the slabs, and were skidding the marker stone to a chosen one, then doing an elaborate little dance in and out of the squares, bending gracelessly on one leg to pick up the stone when they were finished.
“Do you know the lady in there?” Pitt pointed to the door of number 3.
They looked at him with confusion. “Which lady?” the bigger one asked.
“Are there a lot of ladies?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know Mrs. Mapes?”
“Mrs. Mapes,” the child said soberly. “Course we do!”
“Do you live in there?” Pitt was surprised. He had already half decided it was an abortionist, and children did not fit his preconception.
“Yeah.” The older child answered; the smaller child was pulling at his sleeve, frightened, and Pitt did not want to get them into trouble for the crumb of information they might be able to give him.
“Thank you.” He smiled, touched the child’s matted hair, and went up to the door. He knocked gently, afraid that a peremptory rap would sound like authority and perhaps elicit no answer, or at best put them on their guard.
It was opened after a very few moments by a small, thin girl who might have been anywhere between twelve and twenty. She was wearing a brown stuff dress, taken in from several sizes larger, a mobcap that held back no more than half her hair, and an outsize apron. Her hands were wet and she carried a kitchen knife. Obviously Pitt had disturbed her at her chores.
“Yeah?” she said with a lift of surprise, her eyes washed-out china blue, already tired.
“Is Mrs. Mapes