The Whitechapel Conspiracy - Anne Perry [37]
After she had made sure that Gracie had everything she needed for the day, she went upstairs again. Actually, Gracie had seemed unusually settled about her chores, almost as if she had already sorted them in her mind and was uninterested in them. But they were the last thing on Charlotte’s mind either, so it hardly mattered.
She changed her clothes, having selected very carefully from her wardrobe a well-fitting dress of a soft, deep aqua shade. It was very flattering—the reason she had chosen it—but also discreet. She had selected it so it would last several seasons, but that meant it was also not unsuitable for visiting someone in mourning. Prints or yellow would have been insensitive.
She dressed her hair with considerable flair. It had taken her a long time to learn to do this well for herself, but if one’s hair looked good, then the rest of one had an excellent chance. Good posture and a smile could achieve most of the rest.
She took the omnibus and then walked. Money should be guarded, and it was a perfectly pleasant day. Of course she knew from Pitt where Martin Fetters had lived, and the newspapers had made the address famous anyway. It was on Great Coram Street, between Woburn Place and Brunswick Square, a handsome house no different from its neighbors except for the drawn curtains. If there had been straw in the street to muffle the passing carriages at the time of Fetters’s death, it was not there now.
She went up the steps without hesitation and knocked on the door. She had no real idea whether Mrs. Fetters would welcome her, or be so deep in grief she would consider her call both impertinent and intrusive. But Charlotte did not care. It was a case of necessity.
The door was opened by a somber butler who surveyed her with polite disinterest.
“Yes, madam?”
She had planned what she intended to say. “Good morning.” She held out her card. “Would you be kind enough to give this to Mrs. Fetters and ask her if she would spare me a few moments of her time. It concerns a matter of the utmost importance to me, and I believe it may be to her also. It is in regard to my husband, Superintendent Thomas Pitt, who investigated Mr. Fetters’s death. He is unable to come himself.”
The butler looked startled. “Oh dear.” He fumbled for words that were suitable. It was very apparent he had never met with such a circumstance and was still suffering from the distress and the grief of the past two months. “Yes madam, I remember Mr. Pitt. He was very civil to us. If you care to wait in the morning room I shall ask Mrs. Fetters if she will see you.” He did not indulge in the polite fiction of pretending he did not know if she were at home.
Charlotte was conducted to a small, bright room facing the early sun and decorated with fashionable Chinese prints, porcelain, and gold chrysanthemums on a silk screen. Within five minutes the butler returned and conducted her to another, very feminine room in rose-pink and green which opened onto the garden. Juno Fetters was a handsome woman, full figured, carrying herself with great dignity. Her skin was very fair even though her hair was an unremarkable brown. Naturally at the moment she was dressed entirely in black, and it became her more than it did most women.
“Mrs. Pitt?” she said curiously. “Please come in and make yourself comfortable. I have left the door open because I like the air.” She indicated the door to the garden. “But if you find it cold, I shall be happy to close it.”
“No, thank you,” Charlotte declined, sitting in the chair opposite Juno. “It is delightful. The smell of the grass is as sweet as flowers. There are times when I prefer it.”
Juno regarded her with concern. “Buckland said that Mr. Pitt is unable to come himself. I hope he is not unwell?”
“Not at all,” Charlotte assured her. She looked at Juno’s intelligent, highly