Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [88]
“Perhaps Mrs. March is one of the saints of God?” Jack Radley said sarcastically.
“Hold your tongue!” Mrs. March shouted. “The sooner that incompetent policeman takes you away the better. If you didn’t murder poor George, then you certainly inspired Emily to do it. Either way, you are guilty and should be hanged!”
The blood fled his face, but he did not look away. There was a vacuum of silence. Somewhere across the hall a footman’s steps sounded loudly till they died away beyond the baize door. Even Eustace was motionless.
Vespasia rose to her feet stiffly, as if her back hurt her. Eyes glazed, William rose also and pulled out her chair, steadying her arm.
“I assume Mr. Beamish will send Mr. Hare to console us again,” she said quietly, and with only the slightest tremor, “which is as well; he will be infinitely more use. If he calls I shall be in my room. I would like to see him.”
“Would you like us to send for the doctor, Grandmama?” William found his voice with difficulty. He looked as if he were walking in a nightmare through which he had struggled all night, only to wake and find it still with him, stretching into endless, unalterable reality.
“No, thank you, my dear.” Vespasia patted his hand, and then walked slowly from the room, keeping her balance with care.
“Excuse me.” Charlotte set her napkin by her plate and followed Vespasia out, catching up with her in the hallway and taking her elbow all the way up the long, wide stairs. For once Vespasia did not resist her.
“Would you like me to stay with you?” she asked at the door of the bedroom.
Vespasia looked at her steadily, her face weary and frightened. “Do you know anything, Charlotte?”
“No,” Charlotte said honestly. “But if Emily is right Sybilla hated Eustace, whether for herself or for William or for Tassie, I don’t know.”
Vespasia’s lips tightened and her eyes looked even more wretched. “For William, I should imagine,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “Eustace has never known when to hold his tongue. He is not a sensitive man.”
Charlotte hesitated, on the brink of asking if there was anything else, but drew back from probing any more. She gave the shadow of a smile, and left her.
The idea was hardening in her, and as soon as she was sure the landing was clear, Charlotte went to Sybilla’s door and tried it. The servants had naturally been told what happened, and no maid would venture in here. Pitt had moved Sybilla to the long seat by the window before, for his experiment on the bed, but perhaps he had lifted her back now, to rest in some attitude of peace, providing one did not see the face.
The door was not locked. Maybe there was no need; who would return, except in grief, and in humanity that must be allowed? Both Pitt and Treves must already have seen everything they could, and presumably gone down to the butler’s pantry to consult.
She glanced round the landing once more, then turned the handle and went in. The room faced south and was full of light. There was a shape on the bed, under a sheet. She kept her eyes from it, although she knew perfectly well precisely what she would see if she were to take it off. She must control her imagination and a surprisingly sharp sense of pity, which tugged at her like a bruise of the mind. Sybilla had caused Emily dreadful pain, and yet perversely she could not loathe her as she wished, even when she was alive. She was aware of some hard knot of hurt in Sybilla also, something growing and becoming worse, more acute. She could only hate the comfortable, the unmarked, because she felt alien from them. The moment she saw the wound and believed the pain, her anger slipped away like sand through a sieve. So it had been with Sybilla, and now she intended to search for some sign of what had been the cause.
She stared round. Where to begin? Where did she keep her own private things, things that would reveal to another woman her