Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [70]
In the mornings Gracie reported to him the events of the previous day that she considered important, but it was a shy, bare account—nothing like Charlotte’s, full of opinion, detail, and drama. He used to think her incessant talking through breakfast an intrusion, one of the penalties men invariably pay for marriage. But without it he found himself unable to concentrate on the newspaper and taking little pleasure in it.
Now he inquired of the footman where she was, and was shown into the overcrowded boudoir, close as a hothouse, and requested to wait. It was less than five minutes before Charlotte came in and, pushing the door closed sharply behind her, threw her arms round him and clung to him fiercely. She made no sound, but he could feel that she was weeping, a tired, slow letting go of tears.
Presently he kissed her—her hair, her brow, her cheek—then he passed her his only decent handkerchief, waiting while she blew her nose savagely, twice.
“How are the children?” she asked, swallowing and looking up at him. “Has Daniel cut that tooth yet? I thought he was getting a bit feverish—”
“He’s perfectly all right,” he assured her. “You’ve only been gone a couple of days.”
But she was not satisfied. “What about the tooth? Are you sure he isn’t feverish?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure. Gracie says he’s fine, and eating all his meals.”
“He won’t eat cabbage. She knows that.”
“May I have my handkerchief back? It’s the only one I’ve got.”
“I’ll get you one of—of George’s. Why haven’t you got any handkerchiefs? Isn’t Gracie doing the laundry?”
“Of course she is. I just forgot.”
“She should put it in your pocket for you. Are you all right, Thomas?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I’m glad.” But her voice was doubtful. She sniffed, and then changed her mind and blew her nose again. “I suppose you don’t know anything about George yet. I don’t. The more I watch the less I seem to see.”
He put his hand on her shoulder gently, feeling her warm beneath his touch.
“We will,” he said with more conviction than he had any grounds for. “It’s too soon yet. How is Emily?”
“Feeling ill, and frightened. I—I think she found letting Edward go back with Mrs. Stevenson the hardest thing. He’s so awfully young—he doesn’t understand. But he will, soon. He’ll—”
“Let’s solve today’s problems first,” he interrupted. “We’ll help with Edward after—”
“Yes, of course.” She swallowed again and unconsciously rubbed her hands over her skirt. “We must know more about the Marches. It was one of them, or ... or Jack Radley.”
“Why do you hesitate before you mention him?”
She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “I suppose—” She stopped.
“Are you afraid Emily encouraged him?” he asked, hating to say it. But if he did not it would still hang between them; they knew each other too well to lie, even by silence.
“No!” But she knew he did not believe her. It was the answer of loyalty, not conviction. “I don’t know,” she added, trying to find something closer to the truth. “I don’t think she meant to.” She took a deep breath. “How are you getting on with the Bloomsbury case? You must be busy with that as well.”
“I’m not.” He felt a heaviness as he said it. He had no hope of solving that, and no solution would show anything more than a common tragedy he was incapable of preventing again. It was only the grotesqueness of the corpse that marked it in the public mind.
She was looking at him; puzzlement gave way to understanding. “Isn’t there anything? Can’t you even find out who she was?”
“Not yet. But we’re still trying. She could have come from anywhere in a dozen directions. If she was a parlormaid dismissed for immoral conduct, or even because the master of the house made advances to her and the mistress found out, then she could have taken to the streets to earn a living, and been killed by a customer, a pimp, a thief—anyone.”
“Poor woman,” Charlotte said softly. “Then it’s hopeless.”
“Probably. But we’ll keep on a little