Anne Perry - Belgrave Square

Pitt picked up the frame and rewrapped it.

“Yes, I’ll take it.”

“I’ll want a paper,” Caulfleld warned. “Just to protect me, like. I don’t want some other police officer comin’ ’ere and saying I kept it or sold it for myself.” This time he looked Pitt squarely in the face.

Pitt understood. What he meant was that he wanted proof that Pitt had found it, so he would be obliged to report it to his senior. That was the purpose of it, to make sure Urban was implicated. In what? Art theft, forgery, fencing stolen works-bribery with paintings for an officer who was prepared to turn his back now and again on theft? He was chilled inside. The Inner Circle again? Urban had defied them a second time by pressing for prosecution in the Osmar case. He had invited a more severe discipline than merely his name on Weems’s list. Was this it?

A loathing for the manager welled up inside him, although he knew it was unreasonable. Very probably the man was caught by the Inner Circle himself.

“That’s quite fair,” he said with a smile over bared teeth. “I shall take the matter back to Bow Street and report it to Mr. Urban; he’s head of the uniformed men there. I’ll tell him you are most cooperative. I daresay no one will bother you any further.”

Caulfleld drew in his breath sharply, his eyes wide. He was about to protest, then remembered just in time that he was not supposed to know who his employee had been. He had almost betrayed himself. With care he ironed out the expression from his face and forced himself to smile back at Pitt, a bare glimmer of triumph in his eyes for at least one snare avoided.

“Yes of course. I’m obliged. Now the paper, if you please? Just for my safeguard, you understand.”

“Oh I understand,” Pitt said viciously. “I understand perfectly. You’d better bring me a pen and paper.”

Caulfleld inclined his head. “Of course, right away, Officer.”

While Pitt was in Stepney struggling with the question of Urban and the Inner Circle, Charlotte sought for Fanny’s address and sent it to Emily so she might give it to Fitz. Then after a day spent in furious housework, baking bread and cakes more than anyone wanted, and ironing everything she could reach, laundered or not, she finally came to a decision the following morning. She confided to Gracie what she was going to do, and then set out in her best summer day dress and coat against a rising wind. She hired a hansom cab to take her to the magistrate’s court where Addison Carswell was accustomed to preside.

She had already written him a very carefully worded letter reminding him who she was, and that she had befriended Fanny Hilliard and grown fond of her on the several occasions on which they had met, so much so that Fanny had confided in her some of her present troubles. Therefore she would be most grateful if in the interests of compassion, Mr. Carswell would do her the honor of taking luncheon with her, so they might discuss how best to be of assistance to that charming but unfortunate young woman, for whom it seemed they both had some affection.

It was not intended as a threat-apart from anything else she would not have betrayed Fanny’s confidence in her-but on the other hand she did not wish Carswell simply to send a note to decline and say that he wished her well, but he had not the time to indulge in luncheons, much as he might care to.

She had been quite shameless in asking Emily for the means to pay both for the hansom ride there and back, and for luncheon at a public restaurant should Carswell accept, and not offer to pay for them both. She had also written to Emily and had Gracie post the letter on the previous evening. She had been unequivocal.

Dear Emily,

I am sure you are quite as desirous as I am that all should work out as well as possible between Fitz and Fanny Hilliard, albeit our interests are not precisely the same, but perhaps close-I do care very much that Jack should be selected for Parliament, and I am sure he will succeed when he is there. However you know as well as I that in the process poor Fanny seems to have suffered greatly. She is innocent of the charge, for which you will have to accept my word-one day I may be able to tell you the truth, which is quite remarkable. In the meantime I am going to do what I can to set matters right-for which I shall need a small sum, sufficient to take a hansom cab into the city, and back again, and treat a certain gentleman to luncheon, in an effort to get him to assist by making the truth known-to Fitz at least, if no one else.

I trust totally that you will help, therefore I shall take the money from my housekeeping, and rely on you to replace it.

Your loving sister, Charlotte

She sat in the hansom with every confidence that at least the mechanics of her plan would work. What was far more in the balance was whether she would find the words to persuade Addison Carswell to jeopardize everything he possessed in order to help Fanny, especially when there was no certainty that it was what Fanny herself wished.

In fact, as she jolted along, Charlotte began to have doubts that what she was doing was wise. She could not foresee the outcome, but she was perfectly sure Fanny loved Fitz and desired that he should know the truth about her and Carswell, and that Fanny herself would not tell him.

She reached the courthouse long before she was ready, and was obliged to alight, pay the cabby and either stand on the pavement and cause people to wonder and perhaps be accosted by peddlers, newsboys shouting the scandal of the latest case, or beggars in need of assistance she could not afford to give, or else to go straight in.

She wrapped her coat a little tighter around her, not because it was cold, but instinctively in a kind of protection, as though she was chilled and vulnerable, and ascended the steps.

Inside the courthouse was busy and impersonal. There were many nervous women clutching coats and shawls around themselves, pale faced, watching every passerby, hesitant to speak and yet seemingly wishing to. Shabby men waited, hands in pockets, eyes furtive. Bailiffs and clerks hurried past carrying piles of papers, gowns flying, wigs making them look either important or slightly ridiculous, depending on one’s own purpose and fears.

Charlotte spoke to one who was going a little less swiftly.

“Excuse me, sir-”

He swung to a stop, turning on his heel and staring at her with brisk arrogance.

“Yes ma’am?” He wore wire-rimmed pince-nez and blinked at her through them.

“I have a letter to deliver urgently to Mr. Addison Carswell.” She stated her business without preamble. “To whom may I give it to make certain it reaches him before luncheon?”

“He is in court, ma’am!”

“I assumed that, or I would have attempted to give it to him myself.” She held his eyes without flickering and he seemed somewhat taken aback. It was not what he expected from young women, or indeed any women at all.

“It is important,” she said firmly.

“Is it personal, ma’am?” He was still dubious.

“It is personal to Mr. Carswell,” she replied with a very slight edge to her voice, hoping it would put him off asking anything further about it. “Not to me.”

“Indeed. Then I will take it for you.” He held out his hand.

“Before luncheon,” she repeated, passing it to him.

“Certainly,” he agreed, taking it and putting it in his pocket, then with a nod proceeding on his way.

There was nothing further she could do but find a seat and compose herself to wait for an answer. Usually she enjoyed watching people, their faces, their clothes, their attitudes towards one another, and speculating in her imagination as to what they were like, their occupations, relationships. But in this place there was so much anxiety, hopelessness and underlying fear that it was too harrowing. She sat instead and whiled away the time wondering about Lord and Lady Byam, and Lady Byam’s relationship with Micah Drummond, and what manner of person Lord Anstiss might be if one knew him as a friend and were not overawed by him, indeed how Laura Anstiss had seen him!