Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [97]
But perhaps before taking such a radical step Charlotte should make absolutely sure what the situation was. She might be panicking quite unnecessarily. It was almost certainly nothing so absurd.
She would visit Caroline again and put the matter to her candidly. Caroline would understand her concern.
All this she thought lying awake in the darkness, and when morning came she saw Pitt off without even asking him where he was going, or what time he expected to be home. Not that they were questions he could answer, but it had been her habit to ask, simply as a demonstration that she cared.
Then she informed Gracie that she was going out on a matter of business to do with the murder in Farriers’ Lane, with the implicit promise that when she came back she would tell her whatever she learned.
Gracie smiled happily and set about scrubbing the kitchen floor with a vigor and enthusiasm quite out of proportion to her interest in the task.
Charlotte took the omnibus to Cater Street and arrived shortly after ten o’clock, not a suitable time for calling. She found Caroline busy sorting linen for the housemaid, and Grandmama still not emerged from her bedroom, where she was customarily served her breakfast on a tray.
“Good morning!” Caroline said with surprise and a slight frown of concern. She was dressed in plain brown stuff, with no trimmings but a cotton lace collar, and her hair wound loosely and with no fashionable curls or braids. She looked younger than usual, and prettier. Charlotte had not seen her so informally for several years, and she was taken aback by how comely she looked, how good her features and her skin. Without the additions of fashion, expensive clothes and elaborate hair she was more individual, softer, less like every other woman in society of middle years. Words rose to her lips to say so, then she thought perhaps it would be tactless.
“Good morning, Mama,” she said cheerfully. “You look very well.”
“I am.” Caroline’s brow creased. “What brings you here so early? Has Thomas learned something about the case?”
“I don’t think so. If he has, he hasn’t told me.” Charlotte automatically took the other end of the bedsheet Caroline was examining and held it up, saw that it needed no mending, and helped her fold it again. “I came because I think it is time we learned more ourselves, don’t you?”
“Indeed,” Caroline agreed immediately, so immediately that Charlotte wondered if it were something she had been thinking about herself, or if it were simply another opportunity to take action, and probably to meet Joshua Fielding again.
“How much do we really know about the people involved?” she said, taking a pillowcase and trying to be tactful.
“You mean their actions on the night of the murder?” Caroline asked, not looking at Charlotte but at the pile of linen as yet unexamined.
“Well, that would do for a start,” Charlotte said with less than enthusiasm. This was going to be difficult. “But we need to know a great deal more about their personalities than I do, at least. Perhaps you know more?”
“Yes—I should imagine so.” Caroline explored the embroidery at the edge of the pillowcases, looking for places where it was weak and coming away from the fabric.
Charlotte hated herself for being so devious. “What about Tamar Macaulay? Do you know who is the father of her child?”
Caroline drew in a breath to expostulate, then let it out again slowly as the necessity for realism overtook her.
“Kingsley Blaine, I believe. She really did care for him, you know. It was not a quick romance, or a matter of seeking the presents he could give her.”
“Did he give her many presents?”
“No—no, I don’t think so.”
“Isn’t it possible someone else was in love with her also, and was sufficiently jealous of Kingsley Blaine that he might have killed him?”
Caroline looked up, her face pink, her eyes defensive. “You mean Joshua, don’t you?”
“I mean anyone that could apply to,” Charlotte