Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [125]
“I don’t know. I never found out. I presume Sybilla found it for a servant, one of her own maids or a friend’s. I can’t imagine any of her own circle wanting such a service. Even if they had an illegitimate child, they would find some other provision; a relative in the country, a family retainer in retirement with a daughter.”
“I suppose it was a maid,” Charlotte agreed. “Or else she knew the woman for some other reason. Poor Sybilla.”
“It doesn’t help me any further towards finding out who killed her, or why.”
“You asked the woman, of course?”
He gave a sharp, guttural little laugh. “You didn’t see Clarabelle Mapes, or you wouldn’t ask.”
“Have you no idea who killed George?” She faced him, eyes dark with anxiety, fear heavy at the back of them. He realized again how tired she was, how very troubled.
He touched her cheek gently, slowly. “No, my love, not much. There are only William, Eustace, Jack Radley, and Emily left; unless it was the old woman, which I would dearly like to think, but I know of no reason she would. I can’t even imagine one—and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“You include Emily!”
He closed his eyes, opening them slowly, unhappily. “I have to.”
There was no point in arguing; she knew it to be true. A knock on the door saved her from the necessity of replying.
“Come in,” Pitt said reluctantly.
It was Stripe, looking apologetic and holding a note in his hand.
“Sorry, Mr. Pitt, sir. The police surgeon sent this for you. It don’t make no sense.”
“Give it to me.” Pitt reached out and grabbed it, opening the single sheet and reading.
“What is it?” Charlotte demanded. “What does it say?”
“She was strangled,” he replied quietly, his voice dropping. “By her hair, quick and hard. Very effective.” He saw Charlotte shiver and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Stripe bite his lip. “But she wasn’t carrying a child,” he finished.
Charlotte was stunned. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” he said irritably. “Don’t be idiotic. This is from the surgeon who did the postmortem. You can hardly mistake such a thing!”
Charlotte screwed up her face as if she had been physically hurt, and bent her head into her hands. “Poor Sybilla. She must have miscarried, and she dared not tell anyone. How she must have hated Eustace going on and on about how marvelous it was she was going to give William an heir after all this time. No wonder she looked at him with such loathing. And that dreadful old woman haranguing about family! Oh, God, what wounds we inflict on people!”
Pitt looked at Stripe, who was obviously embarrassed at such an intimate subject and hurt by the pity he felt but only half understood. He realized this was a whole sea of pain he did not comprehend.
“Thank you,” Pitt nodded. “I don’t think it helps us, and I see no reason to tell the family. It will only cause unnecessary distress. Let her keep her secret.”
“Yes, sir.” Stripe withdrew, something like relief in his face.
Charlotte looked up and smiled. She did not need to praise him; he knew it was there in all the unsaid words between them.
Luncheon was as miserable as breakfast had been, and Emily sat at the dining room table more in defiance than because of any delusion that it would be more endurable than eating alone in her room. An additional incentive was the growing conviction that the ring was tightening round her, and unless she could find her own escape she was going to be charged with murder.
Charlotte had told her about following Tassie and discovering the secret of her midnight excursions and the blood on her dress. A difficult delivery could be a very messy affair; the afterbirth could look, in the glare of lamplight, like the gore of a butchery. And no wonder Tassie had worn such a look of calm delight! She had witnessed the beginning of a new life, the last act in the creation of a human being. Could anything at all be further from the madness of which they had suspected her?
Thomas had been here this morning, had spoken to Charlotte and left again, without explanation or, apparently, any further investigation.