"Your courage is superb," he said gently, standing close enough to her that he could speak softly and be heard by no one else. "We all owe you a great deal. I think perhaps it is your strength which makes this bearable."

She smiled up at him with a sudden rush of pleasure he thought for a moment was absolutely real, as if he had given her a small but precious gift.

"Thank you ..." she whispered. "Thank you, Dominic."

6

"DO YOU THINK it is Ramsay Parmenter?" Charlotte asked, pushing the marmalade across the breakfast table to Pitt. It was now the fourth day since Unity Bellwood's death. Charlotte had, of course, told Pitt about her visit to Brunswick Gardens, and he had not reacted favorably. She had had some considerable explaining to do, and had not been very successful. She knew he was still unhappy about it-not that it was her meddling, which he was more than used to, but because she had gone so quickly to Dominic. it is Ramsay Parmenter?" Charlotte asked, pushing the marmalade across the breakfast table to Pitt. It was now the fourth day since Unity Bellwood's death. Charlotte had, of course, told Pitt about her visit to Brunswick Gardens, and he had not reacted favorably. She had had some considerable explaining to do, and had not been very successful. She knew he was still unhappy about it-not that it was her meddling, which he was more than used to, but because she had gone so quickly to Dominic.

"I don't know," he replied to her question. "It seems most probable from the facts, and least likely from what I can learn of the man."

"People do sometimes behave very out of character." She took a piece of toast herself.

"No, they don't," he argued. "They only behave out of the character you know. If he was a man to do that, it will be there somewhere."

"But if it wasn't him, then it must have been Mallory," she pointed out. "Why would he? The same reason?" She was trying to keep it out of her voice, but at the back of her mind was the cold fear that Dominic would be suspected. The change in him had been so complete, could Pitt believe it? Or would he always see Dominic as he had been in Cater Street, even by his own admission now, selfish, too easily flattered, giving in to appet.i.te at the first whim?

"I doubt it," he replied. "She irritated him with her views, but he was sufficiently certain in his mind it did not trouble him. But he could have been the father of her child, if that is what you mean."

The coldness inside her grew. She tried to recall to her mind the image of Dominic as he had been during their carriage ride to the haberdasher. There was something he was keeping hidden and which troubled him, something to do with Unity.

"Then it probably was Mallory," she said aloud, pouring him more tea without asking. "I spoke quite a lot with Dominic when I visited. I had the opportunity to be alone with him in the carriage. He really has changed utterly, Thomas. He has lost all the old selfishness. He believes in what he is doing now. It is a vocation for him. His whole face lights up when he speaks of it-"

"Does it?" Pitt said dryly, concentrating on his toast.

"You should talk to him yourself," she urged. "You will see how different he is. It is as if he has suddenly grown up into all the best that was possible in him. I don't know what happened, but he was in great despair, and Ramsay Parmenter found him and helped him, and through his pain he discovered a far greater goodness."

He put his knife down. "Charlotte, you have spent the whole breakfast telling me how Dominic has changed. Somebody in that house killed Unity Bellwood, and I shall investigate it until either I discover who it was or there is nothing more to pursue. And that includes Dominic as much as anyone else."

She heard the edge to his voice, but she kept on arguing. "But you don't really think Dominic could have done it, do you?" she persisted. "We knew Dominic, Thomas. He is part of our family." She ignored her tea, which was rapidly going cold. "He might have been foolish in the past, indeed we know he was, but that is a very different thing from murder. He couldn't! He's terribly afraid for Ramsay Parmenter. His whole mind is taken up with his debt of grat.i.tude to him and how he can help now that Ramsay needs him so much."

"None of which means he could not have known Unity far better than he is implying," he answered. "And that she didn't find him extremely attractive and pursue him, perhaps more than he wished, tempt him, and then blackmail him afterwards." He drank the last of his tea and set down the cup. "Taking the cloth forbids a man indulging his natural desires, but it does not stop him feeling them. You are being just as idealistic about Dominic as you used to be in Cater Street. He is a real man, with real weaknesses, like all of us!" He rose from the table, leaving the last two mouthfuls of his toast uneaten. "I am going to see what I can learn about Mallory."

"Thomas!" she called out, but he had gone. She had done the last thing she had meant to. Far from helping Dominic, she had only succeeded in angering Pitt. Of course she knew Dominic was as human and as fallible as anyone else. That was what she was afraid of.

She stood up and started to clear the table.

Gracie came in looking puzzled, her starched ap.r.o.n crisp and clean. She was still so small all her clothes needed taking up, but she had filled out a little and was barely recognizable from the waif she had been when they had taken her in seven years before. Then she had been thirteen and looking for a domestic place, any place at all. She was extremely proud of working for a policeman, and a senior one at that, who solved all kinds of important cases. She never allowed the butcher's boy or the fishmonger to take liberties with her, and told them off soundly if they were impertinent. She was quite capable of giving orders to the woman who came in twice a week to do the heavy scrubbing and laundry.

"Mr. Pitt din't finish 'is breakfast!" she said, looking at the toast.

"I don't think he wanted it," Charlotte replied. There was no point in making up a lie for Gracie. She would not say anything, but she was far too observant to be misled.

"Prob'ly worried about that reverend wot pushed the girl down them stairs," Gracie said with a nod, picking up the teapot and putting it on the tray. "'Nother nasty one, that. I daresay as she was no better than she should be, an' teasin' a reverend is a wicked fing ter do, seein' as they get undressed or summink if they fall inter sin." She set about clearing the rest of the dishes from the table.

"Undressed?" Charlotte said curiously. "Most people get undressed to-" She stopped. She had no idea how much Gracie knew of the facts of life.

"'Course they do," Gracie agreed cheerfully, putting the marmalade and the b.u.t.ter onto her tray. "I mean the bishop takes 'em to court an' undresses 'em permanent, like. And then they in't reverends anymore. They can't preach nor nuffink."

"Oh! You mean defrocked!" Charlotte bit her lips to stop herself from laughing. "Yes, that's right. It's very serious indeed." Her heart sank again, thinking of Dominic. "Perhaps Miss Bellwood wasn't a very nice person."

"Some folks like ter do that kind o' thing," Gracie went on, picking up the tray to carry it through to the kitchen. "Yer gonner find out all about 'em, ma'am? I can look arter everyfink 'ere. We gotter 'elp the Master if 'e's got a bad case. 'E depends on us."

Charlotte opened the door for her.

"'E must be worried," Gracie went on, turning sideways to get through. "'E's gorn awful early, an' 'e never leaves 'is toast, 'cos of 'is likin' fer marmalade."

Charlotte did not mention that he had gone in anger because of her repeated praise of Dominic and old wounds she had clumsily reopened.

They went into the kitchen, and Gracie set down the tray. A ginger striped cat with a white chest stretched languidly in front of the fire and removed himself from a pile of clean laundry.

"Get orff me dusters, Archie!" Gracie said sharply. "I dunno 'oo's kitchen this is...'is or mine!" She shook her head. "Wot wif 'im an' Angus chasin' each other all over the 'ouse, it's a wonder more don't get broken. I found 'em both asleep in the linen cupboard last week. Often lie there, them two. Black and ginger fur all over everythin', there was."

The front doorbell rang and Gracie went to answer it. Charlotte followed her into the hall and saw Sergeant Tellman. She stopped abruptly, knowing Tellman's complicated emotions regarding Gracie, and her very simple reaction to him.

"If yer lookin' for Mr. Pitt, 'e already went," Gracie said, regarding Tellman's lantern-jawed face, its characteristic dourness softening as he saw her.

Tellman pulled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.

"'E went early," Gracie agreed with a nod. "'E din't say w'y."

Tellman was undecided what to do. Charlotte could see that he wanted to stay longer and talk to Gracie. He had intense feelings about anyone's being a servant to another person. He despised Gracie's acceptance of the role, and she thought he was foolish and impractical not to see the great advantages it held. She was warm and dry every night, had more than sufficient to eat, and never had bailiffs after her, or any of the other trials and indignities of the poor. It was an argument they could have pursued indefinitely, only she considered it too silly to bother with.

"Yer 'ad yer breakfast?" Gracie asked, looking him up and down. "Yer look 'ungry. Not that you never looks like nothin' but a fourpenny rabbit anyway, an' a face like a dog wot's bin shut out."

He decided to ignore the insult, although he did it with difficulty.

"Not yet," he answered.

"Well, if yer wants a couple o' pieces o' toast, there's an 'ot cup o' tea in the kitchen," she offered quite casually. "If yer like?"

"Thank you," he accepted, coming in straightaway. "Then I'd better be going to find Mr. Pitt. I can't stay long."

"I in't askin' yer fer long." She whisked around, flashing her skirts and marching back down the corridor towards the kitchen. "I got work ter do. Can't 'ave the likes o' you clutterin' up me way 'alf the mornin'."

Charlotte returned to the parlor and pretended she had not seen them.

She left the house herself a little after nine, and by ten o'clock was at her sister Emily's town house in Mayfair. She knew, of course, that Emily was in Italy. She had received letters from Emily regularly detailing the glories of the Neapolitan spring; the most recent, yesterday evening, had been from Florence. The city was extremely beautiful and full of fascinating people, artists, poets, expatriate English of all sorts, not to mention the native Italians, whom Emily found courteous and more friendly than she had expected.

The very streets of Florence fascinated her. In the straw market, uncharacteristically for her, she was more drawn to the brave beauty of Donatello's statue of the young St. George than to the goods she might have bought.

Charlotte envied her sister that adventure of the body and of the mind. But in Emily's absence Charlotte had promised to call at the very least once or twice to visit with Grandmama, who was there virtually alone, at least as far as family was concerned. Caroline would call occasionally, but she was too busy to come often, and when Joshua was playing outside London, which he did now and then, she went with him.

Grandmama was not yet ready to receive visitors, and the maid asked Charlotte to wait, which was what she had expected. Whatever time she called had to be wrong, and ten in the morning should hardly be too late, therefore it would be too early.

She contented herself with reading the morning newspaper, which the footman brought to her ironed and on a salver. She accepted it with a smile and began to see what comments it had about the death of Unity Bellwood. At least so far it was not a scandal, merely a tragedy without satisfactory explanation. It would probably not have been mentioned at all had it not occurred in the home of the next Bishop of Beverly.

The door opened and the old lady stood in the entrance. She was dressed in black, as was her habit. She had made an occupation of being in mourning ever since her husband's death some thirty-five years since. If it was good enough for the Queen, it was certainly a pattern worthy of her emulation.

"Reading the scandal are you, again?" she said critically. "If this were my house, I shouldn't allow the footman to give you the newspapers. But then it isn't. I don't have a home anymore." Her voice took on a note of acute self-pity. "I am a lodger, a dependent. n.o.body takes any notice of what I want."

"I am sure you can please yourself whether you read the newspapers or not, Grandmama," Charlotte replied, folding the paper and setting it aside on the table. She rose to her feet and went towards the old lady. "How are you? You look well."

"Don't be impertinent," the old lady said, bridling a little. "I am not well. I have hardly been sleeping at all."

"Are you tired?" Charlotte enquired.

The old lady glared at her. "If I say yes, you will suggest I return to my bed; if I say no, you will tell me I did not need the sleep," she pointed out. "Whatever I say, it will be wrong. You are most argumentative today. Why did you come, if all you want to do is contradict me? Have you quarreled with your husband?" She looked hopeful. "I daresay he is tired of your meddling in matters that are none of your concern and of which no decent woman would even have heard." She stomped over to Charlotte, waving her stick in front of her, and sat down heavily in one of the chairs near the fire.

Charlotte returned to her chair and sat down also.

"No, I have not quarreled with Thomas," she said smoothly. It was true, in the way Grandmama meant it, if not literally. And even if he had beaten her, she would not have told the old lady so. "I came to visit you."

"Nothing better to do, I suppose!" the old lady remarked.

Charlotte was tempted to say that she had many better things and she had come as a matter of duty, but decided it would achieve nothing she wished for, and refrained.

"Not at the moment," she answered.

"No crimes for you to interfere with?" The old lady raised her eyebrows.

"Dominic has become a minister," Charlotte said, changing the subject.

"Vulgar, I think," the old lady p.r.o.nounced. "Most of them are corrupt anyway, always currying favor with the public, who don't know any better. Government should be conducted by gentlemen, born to lead, not by people chosen at random by the ma.s.ses who haven't the faintest idea what it means half the time." She stood her stick up in front of her and crossed her hands over the knot, rather in the manner the Queen was wont to adopt. "I am against electing," she announced. "It only brings out the worst in everybody. And as for women having the vote, that is preposterous! No decent woman would want it, because she would be quite aware that she had no knowledge upon which to base her judgment. Which leaves the rest...and who wants the nation's fate in the hands of harlots and 'new women'? Not that they aren't after the same thing anyway."

"A minister in the church, Grandmama, not in the government," Charlotte corrected.

"Oh. Well, that's better, I suppose. Although how he expects to keep Emily on a minister's pay I've no idea." She smiled. "Have to stop wearing those fancy gowns then, won't she? No silks and satins for her. And no unsuitable colors anymore, either." She looked thoroughly satisfied at the prospect.

"Dominic, Grandmama, not Jack."

"What?"

"Dominic, who was married to Sarah, not Emily's Jack."

"Then why didn't you say so? Dominic? That Dominic you used to be so in love with?"

Charlotte controlled herself with an effort. "He is a curate now."

The old lady knew she had scored a point. "Well, well!" She breathed out with a sigh. "n.o.body as righteous as a reformed sinner, is there? No more flirting with him, then, eh?" She opened her black eyes very wide. "What brought that about? Lost his looks, has he? What happened? Did he catch the pox?" She nodded. "Those who live longest see most." Then her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How did you find out, then? Went looking for him, did you?"

"He knew the woman whose death is Thomas's present case. I went to congratulate him on his vocation," Charlotte replied.

"You went to meddle," the old lady corrected her with satisfaction. "And because you wanted to look at Dominic Corde again. Always said he was no good. Told Sarah that when she wanted to marry him, poor child. Told you, but did you listen? Of course not! You never do. And look what happened to you. Married a policeman. Scrub your own floors, I shouldn't wonder. And get to a lot of places a decent woman wouldn't be seen near. I'd be sorry for your mother if she wasn't even worse! My poor dear Edward's death must have deranged her mind." She nodded again, still keeping her hands on her stick. "Marrying an actor young enough to be her son. I'd be sorry for her if I weren't so ashamed. I daren't go out of the house for the embarra.s.sment of it!"

Unfortunately, there was little to argue about that. Several of Caroline's erstwhile friends had decided not to know her anymore. And she had ceased to care about it in the slightest. She still enjoyed the company of those whose friendship rode the wave of such eccentricity.

"It is most unfortunate for you." Charlotte decided to try a new approach. "I really am very sorry. I don't suppose any of your friends will speak to you now. It is a disgrace."

The old lady stared at her with d.a.m.ning anger. "That is a terrible thing to say. My friends are of the old school. None of this modern selfish way. A friend is a friend for life." She emphasized the last word. "If we did not remain loyal to each other, where would we be?"

She sniffed and leaned a trifle forward over her stick. "I have seen a great deal more of life than you have, and I can tell you this new idea of women trying to become like men is all going to end in tragedy. You should stay at home, my girl, and look after your family. Keep your house clean and well run, and your mind the same." She nodded. "A man has a right to expect that. He provides for you, protects you and instructs you. That is as it should be. If he falls a little short now and then, you must be patient. That is your duty. Everything depends on a man's advantages and strength, and a woman's humility and virtue." She sniffed again. "Your mother should have taught you that, if she were fulfilling her calling," she added meaningfully.

"Yes, Grandmama."

"Don't be impertinent! I know you disagree with me. I can see it in your face. Always thought you knew better, but you don't!"

Charlotte rose to her feet. "I can see that you are very well, Grandmama. If I speak to Dominic again I shall convey your congratulations to him. I am sure you are glad he has found the path of rect.i.tude."

The old lady grunted. "And where are you going?"

"To see Great-Aunt Vespasia. I am to take luncheon with her."

"Are you? You didn't offer to take luncheon with me."

Charlotte looked at her long and carefully. Was there any point in telling her the truth? That her endless criticism made her company burdensome, that the only way to tolerate it without weeping was to laugh? That she had never once felt happier, lighter-hearted, braver or more hopeful because of it?

"One would have thought you would have preferred your own family to some lady who is only related to you by your sister's marriage," Grandmama went on. "That says something for your values, doesn't it?"

"One would have hoped it, certainly," Charlotte agreed. "But Great-Aunt Vespasia likes me, and I don't think you do."

The old lady looked startled, a faint flush of pink in her cheeks.

"I am your grandmother! I am family. That is quite different."

"Absolutely," Charlotte agreed with a smile. "Relationship is a birthright; liking someone has to be acquired. I hope you have a pleasant day. If you want to read the scandal in the newspapers, it's on page eight. Good-bye."

She left feeling guilty, and angry with herself for allowing the old lady to provoke her into retaliation. She took another hansom and sat for the whole journey seething with anger and wondering if Unity Bellwood had suffered with family like Grandmama. She knew the rage within herself and the pa.s.sion to prove herself right that it engendered. To be continuously thwarted, told she was inadequate to the dream she treasured, that her role was forever limited, brought out the worst in her, a desire to justify herself at almost any cost. She entertained ideas of cruelty which would have horrified her in less-heated moments.

Pitt had told her about the att.i.tudes of the church academic he had spoken to, how he had patronized Unity and belittled her ability, stating, as of a proven matter, that because she was a woman she was necessarily of inferior emotional stability and therefore unsuited to higher learning. The compulsion to prove them wrong in that, and in anything and everything else, must have been overwhelming.

She alighted outside Lady Vespasia c.u.mming-Gould's home, paid the driver, and walked up the steps just as the maid opened the door for her. Vespasia was the great-aunt of Emily's first husband, but she had developed an affection for both Emily and Charlotte which had long outlasted George's death and had grown with their every meeting. She was well over eighty eighty now. In her youth she had been the greatest beauty of her generation. She was still exquisite and dressed with elegance and flair, but she no longer cared what society thought of her, and spoke her opinions with wit and forthrightness, which inspired admiration in many, anger in some, and downright terror in others. now. In her youth she had been the greatest beauty of her generation. She was still exquisite and dressed with elegance and flair, but she no longer cared what society thought of her, and spoke her opinions with wit and forthrightness, which inspired admiration in many, anger in some, and downright terror in others.

She was waiting for Charlotte in her s.p.a.cious withdrawing room with its tall windows letting in the sunlight and the great sense of calm its pale colors and uncluttered surfaces credited. She greeted her with pleasure and interest.

"Come in, my dear, and sit down. I think perhaps to ask you to make yourself comfortable would be foolish." She regarded Charlotte with amus.e.m.e.nt. "You look in far too high a temper for that. What has occasioned it?" She indicated a carved and upholstered chair for Charlotte, and occupied a chaise longue herself. She was dressed in her favorite shades of ivory and deep cream with long pearls almost to her waist. The entire bodice of her gown was made of guipure lace over silk, with a silk fichu at the throat. The bustle was almost nonexistent, as was so far in fashion as to be all but in advance of it.

"I have been to visit Grandmama," Charlotte replied. "She was appalling, and I behaved badly. I said things I should have kept to myself. I loathe her for bringing out the worst in me."

Vespasia smiled. "A very familiar feeling," she sympathized. "It is remarkable how often one's family can occasion it." A ghost of laughter crossed her silver eyes. "Particularly Eustace."