Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [87]
“Don’t be silly!” He had begun to lose control, because he understood what he was asking of her and he knew of no other way. “Do you want me to have to get one of the maids? I’m not asking Emily!”
She had stared at him in horror; then, seeing the desperation in his eyes, hearing the edge of it mounting in his voice, she had taken a step towards the bed, still refusing to look at the exact spot where she had seen Sybilla.
“Take the other one.” He had yielded, pointing to the bedpost at the opposite side. “Sit there and reach behind your neck, round the post.”
Slowly, stiffly, she had done as he ordered, stretching her arms up behind her head, reaching the post, feeling her fingers round it, pretending to tie something.
“Lower down,” he had commanded.
She bent them a little lower.
“Now pull,” he had said. “Make it tighter.” He had taken her hands and pulled them down and away.
“I can’t!” Her arms had hurt, her muscles strained. “It’s too low down—I can’t pull that low. Thomas, you’re hurting me!”
He had let go. “That’s what I thought,” he had said huskily. “No woman could have pulled at it that low down behind her own neck.” He had knelt on the bed beside her, put his arms round her, and buried his face in her hair, kissing her slowly, holding her tighter and tighter. There had been no need for either of them to say it. They stayed there close in the silent certainty: Sybilla had been murdered.
Charlotte’s mind returned to the present, to the breakfast table and its painful charade of normality. She wanted to be gentle, comforting, but there was no time. She swallowed the last of her tea and looked round at each of them.
“We have our senses, and some intelligence,” she said distinctly. “One of us murdered George, and now Sybilla. I think we had better find out who, before it gets any worse.”
Mrs. March shut her eyes and grasped for Tassie’s arm, her thin fingers like claws, surprisingly brown, spotted with old age. “I think I am going to faint!”
“Put your head between your knees,” Vespasia said wearily.
The old woman’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snarled. “You may choose to sit at the breakfast table with your legs around your ears—it would be like you. But I do not!”
“Not very practical.” Emily looked up for the first time. “I don’t suppose she could.”
Vespasia did not bother to lift her eyes from her plate. “I have some sal volatile, if you want it.”
Eustace ignored her, staring at Charlotte. “Do you think that is wise, Mrs. Pitt?” he said without blinking. “The truth may be of a highly distressing nature, especially for you.”
Charlotte knew precisely what he meant, both as to the nature of the truth he believed and how he intended it should be presented to the police.
“Oh, yes.” Her voice was shaking, and she was furious with herself, but she found she could not prevent it. “I am less afraid of what might be discovered than I am of allowing it to remain hidden where it may strike again—and kill someone else.”
William froze. Vespasia put her hand up to her eyes and leaned forward over the table.
“Bad blood,” Mrs. March said with harsh intensity, gripping her spoon so hard it scattered sugar over the cloth. “It always tells in the end. No matter how fine the face, how pretty the manners, blood counts. George was a fool! An irresponsible, disloyal fool. Careless marriages are the cause of half the misery in the world.”
“Fear,” Charlotte contradicted deliberately. “I would have said it was fear that caused the most misery, fear of pain, fear of looking ridiculous, of being inadequate. And most of all, fear of loneliness—the dread that no one will love you.”
“You speak for yourself, girl!” Mrs. March spat at her, turning, white-faced, her eyes blazing. “The Marches have nothing to be afraid of!”
“Don’t be idiotic, Lavinia.” Vespasia sat up, pushing her fallen hair off her brow. “The only people who don’t know fear are the