Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [46]
“Well, I do.” Charlotte forced the outline of a smile to her lips and nodded a dismissal to Digby, who retired obediently, but obviously she deferred judgment upon Charlotte.
Charlotte sat down facing Emily. “Do you want me to tell you again how deeply I grieve for you, how sorry I am, how horrified?”
Emily looked at her grudgingly. “No, thank you, there would hardly be any point.”
“Then help me to learn at least enough of the truth to prevent another tragedy. Because if you think someone who would murder George would then be averse to seeing that you were blamed for it, you are dreaming.”
“I didn’t do it,” Emily whispered.
Charlotte controlled herself with a difficulty so sharp for a moment the breath caught in her chest with a stab and tears prickled in her eyes.
“I know,” she said with a quiver in her voice, and she coughed to try to cover it up. “Have you any idea who did? What about this Sybilla? Could they have quarreled? Or her husband—you didn’t tell me his name. Or did she have another lover?”
She saw concentration overtake anger in Emily’s face, then grief again, and unrestrained tears. Charlotte waited, forcing herself not to lean forward and put her arms round her. Emily did not need sympathy now, she needed practical help.
“Yes,” Emily said at last. “They quarreled last night, just before we went to bed.” She blew her nose fiercely, and again a second time, and stuffed the handkerchief under the pillow and reached for another. Charlotte passed her own.
The door opened and Digby came in with a tray bearing a flowered china teapot, a dish of warm, crumbly scones, and butter and strawberry jam. She set it down carefully.
“Shall I pour, ma’am?” she asked with guarded eyes.
Charlotte accepted. “Yes, please. And if you can find some handkerchiefs, bring them.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Digby’s face relaxed. Perhaps Charlotte was not as bad as she feared.
Charlotte passed Emily a steaming cup, and buttered a scone and spread jam on it. “Eat it,” she advised. “Slowly. And chew it well. We are both going to need all our strength.”
Emily took it obediently. “His name is William,” she continued, answering the question as soon as Digby was out the door. “And I suppose he could have killed George, but he didn’t seem to care about Sybilla. I don’t even know whether he really noticed how far it had gone. Maybe Sybilla always behaves like that.”
“Do you know?” Charlotte hated the question, but it would hover on the edge of their minds until it was answered.
Emily hesitated only a moment. “I can guess. But it was over! He came into my room before he went to bed, and we talked.” She took a shivery breath, but this time she did not lose control. “It was going to be all right, if—if he hadn’t been killed.”
“So it could have been Sybilla.” Charlotte made it a statement rather than a matter open to doubt. “Is she that kind of woman? Has she enough vanity, enough hate?”
Emily’s eyes widened. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t be silly! She was trying to take George away from you—you know everything about her that you possibly can! Now think, Emily.”
There were several minutes of silence while Emily sipped her tea and ate two scones, surprising herself.
“I don’t know,” she said again, at last. “I really don’t. I’m not sure whether she loved him, or just found him fun and enjoyed the attention. It might be that if it wasn’t George it would have been someone else.”
Charlotte did not find that in the least helpful, but she realized that it was all Emily could give. She left it for a moment.
“Who else is there?”
“Nobody,” Emily said quietly. “It doesn’t make any sense.” She looked up, eyes wide and hollow, too hurt to think.
Charlotte reached out and touched her gently. “All right. I’ll judge for myself.” She took another scone and ate it absently.
Emily sat up a little, her shoulders stiff, pulling the thin fabric of her wrap round her. It was almost as though she expected some kind of a blow and was tensed to ward it off.
“I really don’t know what George felt for Sybilla.” She stared down at the embroidered