Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [109]
“No, you don’t.” Caroline closed the door behind her and walked over to the bed. “I came to tell you that I spoke with Joshua yesterday evening . . .”
Mariah stared at her, misery draining her face of all life.
Caroline wanted to be furious with her, but pity overtook justified anger and every shred of the satisfaction in revenge that she had expected.
“I told him you had written the latter to Samuel. . . .”
Mariah winced as if Caroline had struck her. She seemed to grow smaller, huddled into herself.
“But I did not tell him why,” Caroline went on. “I said it was something that had hurt you greatly, and he did not ask what it was.”
There was total silence in the room. Slowly Mrs. Ellison let out her breath and her shoulders sagged. “He didn’t . . .” she whispered with disbelief.
“No.”
Again there was silence. Caroline searched for words to tell her that the wound would heal, the damage was not irreparable after all, but perhaps it was unnecessary.
Mrs. Ellison started to say something, then stopped. Her eyes did not move from Caroline’s face. She was grateful, it was there somewhere in the depths, but to put it into words would make it real, a solid thing between them, and she was not ready to yield that yet.
Caroline smiled briefly, then stood up and left.
She did not see the old lady again that day.
In the evening, when Joshua had left for the theatre after a very brief supper, the maid announced Inspector Pitt, and Caroline was delighted to see him. The pleasure of having Joshua at home during parts of the day was paid for in far too many lonely evenings.
“Thomas! Come in,” she said with pleasure. “How are you? My dear, you look awfully tired. Sit down.” She gestured to the big armchair near the fire. “Have you eaten?” She was very aware that with Charlotte in Paris he too was alone. He looked even more crumpled than usual and had a forlorn air about him. It was not until he had done as he was bidden and the gaslight caught his face more closely that she realized he was also deeply unhappy.
“Thomas, what it is? What has happened?”
He gave a very small smile, rueful and a trifle self-conscious.
“Can I be so easily read?”
It had been a day of honesty. “Yes.”
He relaxed into the chair, letting the warmth seep into him.
“I suppose it’s Joshua I really wanted to speak to. I should have realized he wouldn’t be here at this hour.” He stopped.
She could see he wanted to talk about something. Whatever it was that had distressed him, he needed to speak of it, and Charlotte was not there.
“I can tell Joshua when he comes home,” she said almost casually. “What is it about? The theatre, I presume. Is it to do with the murder of the photographer?”
“Yes. It is really not something to discuss with a woman.”
“Whyever not? Are you embarrassed?”
“No.” He hesitated. “Well . . .”
She thought bitterly of what her mother-in-law had told her. Whatever Pitt had to say, it could hardly be more obscene than that, or more intimately degrading.
“Thomas, I do not need to be protected from life. If you are afraid I cannot keep a confidence, then—”
“That is not it at all!” he protested, running his hand through his hair and leaving it even more rumpled. “It is simply . . . intensely unpleasant.”
“I can see that much in your face. Do you believe that Cathcart’s murder has something to do with the theatre?”
“I think it may. He certainly knew Cecily Antrim . . . very well.”
“You mean they were lovers?” She was amused at his delicacy.
“Not necessarily. That would hardly matter.” He stretched out his legs a little more comfortably. His face was contorted. It was obviously still difficult for him to say to her what it was that filled his mind. She thought of herself this morning trying to find words to tell Samuel about Mrs. Ellison, and she waited.
The fire flickered pleasantly in the grate. There was no other noise in the room except the clock.
“I found photographs of Cecily Antrim in a postcard shop,” he said at last. “We didn’t tell the newspapers how Cathcart