Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [47]
“Good God!” Emily’s chin dropped in incredulity. “You mean for money—with ... Oh, no!”
“Apparently.”
Amazement superseded disbelief, and then a reluctant thrill of horror. “Charlotte, are you sure?”
“I’m sure that’s what Thomas said.”
“But whatever kind of well-bred woman would need money so badly she could think of ... I simply cannot imagine it!”
“Not out of need. Married women, out of boredom, or frustration—the way men gamble with more money than they can afford to lose, or drive crazy races with a four-in-hand and get themselves half killed when they turn over.”
“Did he keep books—Max?”
“I don’t know, and I haven’t thought it wise to ask Thomas yet. But, Emily, if we really tried, surely we could discover who some of these women might be? Perhaps one of them killed Max because he was blackmailing her, wouldn’t let her go. That would be a real reason worth killing for.”
Emily pursed her mouth doubtfully. “But what about Dr. Pinchin?”
“Brothels must need doctors sometimes, mustn’t they? Maybe he was in partnership with Max. Perhaps he put up the money, or found the women through his practice. He would be in a position to know.”
“And Bertie Astley?”
“Maybe he was a customer and recognized her. That would account for why he was not so badly—hurt—”
“That doesn’t make sense. If it was her husband who killed them, he would hate Bertie just as much!”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t. But someone did!”
“Charlotte, we shouldn’t—” Emily let out a long breath. “I’ve met May Woolmer two or three times. We could go and convey our condolences to her. I’ve got black accessories you can borrow. We’ve got to start somewhere. We’ll go this afternoon. What are you going to tell Thomas? You’re a terrible liar—you always say too much and end up by giving yourself away.”
“I told Gracie I was going to the dressmaker.”
Emily grunted and gave her a suspicious look. “Then I suppose I had better give you a dress—for your alibi!”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said graciously. “That is very generous of you. I’d like a red one.”
“Would you indeed!”
Mrs. Woolmer turned over the gold-embossed card and examined it carefully. It was of excellent quality, discreet. And there was no denying the title, Viscountess Ashworth.
“Who is she, Mama?” May inquired hopefully. She was finding this state of limbo exceedingly tiresome. No one yet seemed sure whether Bertie had been the victim or an offender who deserved whatever end he met. May herself, therefore, could not be sure what attitude to adopt, and meeting people in the meantime was testing all her abilities. On the other hand, not meeting people was like being imprisoned.
“I have no idea,” Mrs. Woolmer replied with a frown between her carefully plucked brows. She was wearing purple again, a good choice for those who were not quite certain whether they were in mourning or not. May wore black because she looked utterly dazzling in it; she glowed like warm alabaster in sunlight.
The parlormaid dropped a curtsy. “If you please, ma’am, she is most soberly dressed, ma’am, an’ she came in a carriage with a coat of arms on the side, and two footmen, ma’am, in livery. An’ she ’as ’er sister with ’er, very proper like. An’ she looks like she would be a lady, too, but she didn’t give me any card.”
Mrs. Woolmer made a rapid decision. Social behavior must be judged to a nicety if one were to climb to the heights. Nature had given her one great advantage in the most beautiful daughter of the Season. It would be ungracious to squander it with a clumsy gesture now.
She smiled at the maid. “Please invite Lady Ashworth and her sister to come in, Marigold, and then tell cook to prepare refreshments—tea, and the best cakes and delicacies—and bring them to us.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marigold withdrew to do as she was bidden.
As soon as