Seven Dials - Anne Perry [35]
As soon as they were back in the carriage Emily burst into such laughter she gave herself hiccups. Charlotte did not know whether to laugh back or explode with temper.
“Laugh!” Emily commanded as the driver urged the horses forward and they proceeded towards the next appointment. “You were magnificent, and totally absurd! Thomas would never let you forget it, if he knew.”
“Well, he doesn’t know!” Charlotte said warningly.
Emily leaned comfortably against the padded back of the carriage seat, still smiling to herself. “I think you should tell him . . . except you probably couldn’t do it well. I should do it, really.”
“Emily!”
“Oh, please!” That was not a request so much as a remonstration for meanness of spirit. “I am sure he would appreciate a joke—and this really is one!”
Charlotte had to admit that was true. “Well, choose your time wisely. He has a miserable case at the moment.”
“Can we help?” Emily said instantly, her attention totally serious again.
“No!” Charlotte replied firmly. “At least not yet. Anyway, we need to find Martin Garvie.”
“We will,” Emily assured her confidently. “We are going to luncheon with just the person. I arranged it while I was dressing.”
THE PERSON PROVED to be a young protégé of Emily’s husband, Jack. He was confident, ambitious, and delighted to be taken to luncheon by his mentor’s wife. And since her sister was present, it was as correct as could be.
To begin with, they conversed about all manner of things of general interest. It was acceptable to speak of the ugly situation in Manchester regarding the cotton workers, and from that everyone’s mind moved quite naturally to the murder of Edwin Lovat, because of the connection with Ryerson, although no one actually spoke of it.
The waiter brought them the first course of their excellent luncheon, a delicate Belgian pâté for Mr. Jamieson, a clear soup for Charlotte and Emily.
Emily did not waste any more time, knowing that Jamieson would have to return to his duties soon. She could trespass only so much.
“This is an enquiry for a very secret department of the government,” Emily began shamelessly, having kicked Charlotte under the table to warn her to show no surprise, and certainly not to argue. “My sister”—she glanced at Charlotte—“has made me aware of a way in which I can help, in the utmost confidence, you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Radley,” Jamieson said gravely.
“A young man’s life may depend upon it,” Emily warned. “In fact, he may already be dead, but we hope profoundly that he is not.” She ignored his look of alarm. “Mr. Radley tells me that you are a member of White’s. Is that correct?”
“Yes, yes I am. Surely there is no—”
“No, of course not,” Emily assured him hastily. “There is no question of White’s being involved.” She leaned a little towards him, ignoring her soup, her face intent with concentration. “I had better be candid with you, Mr. Jamieson . . .”
He leaned forward also, his eyes wide. “I promise, Mrs. Radley, that I shall hold it in the most total confidence . . . from everyone.”
“Thank you.”
The waiter returned to take away their dishes and serve the entrée—poached fish for the ladies, roast beef for Jamieson.
As soon as he had gone Charlotte drew in her breath, and felt Emily’s foot tap her ankle. She winced very slightly.
“I believe a young man named Stephen Garrick could give us information which would help,” she said.
Jamieson frowned, but he did not look as puzzled or as surprised as she would have expected. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “We all knew there was something wrong.”
“How did you know?” Charlotte urged, trying to suppress the eagerness in her voice, and the edge of fear she knew was there.
He looked at her frankly. He had wide, clear blue eyes. “He drank far too much for pleasure,” he answered. “It was as if he were trying to drown out something inside