Seven Dials - Anne Perry [36]
“I see,” Emily acknowledged. “There is apparently something that causes him great pain. I presume from the fact that you do not mention it that you do not know what it is.”
“No.” He shrugged very slightly. “And honestly I don’t know how I could find out. I haven’t seen him for several days, and the last time I did, he was in no condition to answer anything sensibly. I . . . I’m sorry.” It was not clear if his apology was for his inability, or for having spoken to them of such a distasteful subject.
“But you do know him?” Charlotte pressed. “I mean, you have his acquaintance?”
Jamieson looked doubtful, as if he sensed in advance what she would ask. “Yes,” he admitted guardedly. “Er . . . not well. I’m not one of his . . .” He stopped.
“What?” Emily demanded.
Jamieson looked back at her. She sat straight-backed, like Great-Aunt Vespasia, smiling at him expectantly, her head beautifully poised.
“One of his circle,” Jamieson finished unhappily.
“But you can enquire,” Emily stated.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” Emily was relentless. “There is great danger. Even a short time may be too late. Can you call upon him this evening?”
“Is it really . . . so . . .” Jamieson was not sure if he was excited or alarmed.
“Oh, yes,” Emily assured him.
Jamieson swallowed a mouthful of beef and roast potato. “Very well. How shall I tell you what I learn?”
“Telephone,” Emily said immediately. She pulled out a card from the tiny silver engraved case in her reticule. “My number is on it. Please do not speak to anyone but me . . . not anyone at all. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mrs. Radley, of course.”
CHARLOTTE THANKED EMILY with profound sincerity and accepted the offered ride home in the carriage. At half past eight, when she and Pitt were sitting in the parlor, the telephone rang. Pitt answered it.
“It is Emily, for you,” he said from the doorway.
Charlotte went into the hall and took the instrument. “Yes?”
“Stephen Garrick is not at home.” Emily’s voice was strange and a little tinny over the wires. “No one has seen him for several days, and the butler says he could not inform Mr. Jamieson when he would return. Charlotte . . . it looks as if he has disappeared as well. What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know.” Charlotte found her hand shaking. “Not yet . . .”
“But we’ll do something, won’t we?” Emily said after a second. “It looks serious, doesn’t it? I mean . . . more serious than a valet losing his job?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said a little huskily. “Yes, it does.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
ON THE DAY THAT CHARLOTTE undertook to help Gracie, and thus Tilda, Pitt returned to Narraway’s office and found him pacing the floor, five steps and then turn, another five, and back again. He spun around as Pitt opened the door. His face was pinched and tired, his eyes too bright. He stared at Pitt questioningly.
Pitt closed the door behind himself and remained standing. “Ryerson was there,” he said bluntly. “He doesn’t deny it. He helped her move the body and he didn’t attempt to call the police. She hasn’t said that, but he will if the police ask him. He’ll protect her, at his own cost.”
Narraway said nothing, but his body seemed to become even more rigid, as if Pitt’s words had layers of meaning deeper than the facts they knew.
“Her story doesn’t make sense,” Pitt went on, wishing Narraway would answer, say anything at all to make the talking easier. But Narraway seemed to be so charged with emotion that he was unable to exercise his usual incisive leap of intelligence. He was waiting for Pitt to lead.
“If she had no involvement, why would she try to move the body?” Pitt continued. “Why not call the police, as anyone else would?”
Narraway glared at him, his voice cracking when he spoke. “Because she