Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [11]
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure.”
Charlotte gave her a sidewise look, but apparently considered she had already said enough about discretion. Anything more might only make Grade’s suspicions worse.
“What shall I say to the master, ma’am?” Gracie asked.
“Nothing. I shall be home long before then. In fact, if Lady Ashworth has an engagement, I may even be home by luncheon.” And with that she swept out the door, down the front step, and went briskly toward the corner where the public omnibus stopped.
Paragon Walk was classically elegant in the winter sun. Charlotte walked smartly along the footpath and up the smooth carriageway to Emily’s front door. The footman opened it before she had reached up for the bellpull. Naturally, in a well-ordered house the pantry would look out onto the drive and guests would be anticipated.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said courteously.
“Good morning, Albert,” she replied with satisfaction, accepting his tacit invitation and stepping inside. It was a very comfortable feeling to be recognized so easily. It gave her the temporary illusion of belonging to this world again.
“Lady Ashworth is writing letters,” he said almost conversationally as he walked ahead of her across the large hall. On its walls were the Ashworth family portraits stretching back to the days of ruffled collars and Elizabethan pantaloons, with gorgeous slashes of color. “But I am sure she will be pleased to see you.”
Charlotte, knowing how Emily disliked letter-writing, was also sure. And she would be even more pleased when she heard Charlotte’s extraordinary piece of news.
The footman opened the morning-room door. “Mrs. Pitt, m’lady,” he said.
Emily stood up, pushing her pen and papers away before Charlotte was even through the door. She was not quite as tall as Charlotte, and had fairer hair that turned to curls with a softness Charlotte had envied all her life. She came forward and hugged Charlotte impulsively, her face alight with pleasure.
“How delightful of you to come! I’m bored to pieces with letters. They are all to George’s cousins, and I can’t bear any of them. Really, you know, the young girls out this Season seem to be even sillier than last year. And heaven knows they were light-witted enough! I refuse to think what next year will be like! How are you?” She stood back and surveyed Charlotte critically. “You look far too healthy to be in the least fashionable. You should appear delicate, like a lily, not some great bursting rose! That is the thing these days. And don’t you know that it is vulgar to look so excited? Whatever has happened? If you don’t tell me, I shall—” A suitable chastisement eluded her; she went over to the comfortable chair in front of the fire and curled up in it.
Charlotte joined her on the sofa opposite, feeling warm, comfortable, and smug. “Do you remember the murders in Callander Square?” she began.
Emily sat up a little straighter, her eyes bright. “Don’t be idiotic! Whoever forgets a murder? Why? Has there been another?”
“Do you remember that dreadful footman, Max?”
“Vaguely. Why? Charlotte, for goodness’ sake stop being so obscure! What on earth are you talking about?”
“Did you read of the murder of Dr. Hubert Pinchin in the newspapers yesterday, or this morning?”
“No, of course not.” Emily was on the edge of her seat now, her back ramrod stiff. “You know George doesn’t give me anything but the society pages. Who is Hubert Pinchin, and what has it to do with that unpleasant footman? Really, you can be extremely irritating!”
Charlotte settled more deeply into the cushions and recounted everything she knew.
Emily clenched her hands, crushing the shell-pink silk of her dress. “Oh dear—how very disgusting! But I never liked that man,” she added frankly. “He left the Balantynes, didn’t he—before the end of that affair, anyway?”
“Yes. It seems he became very successful as a procurer of women.”
Emily winced. “Then perhaps it was rather suitable that he was found in a gutter. And by a prostitute. Do you suppose God has a sense of humor? Or would that be blasphemous?