Anne Perry - Seven Dials

“Did you learn something else?” Charlotte pressed.

That was easy to answer. “Not really. Even when she told the butler as she was ’is sister, ’e din’t tell ’er wot ’appened, nor where ’e’d gone.”

Charlotte looked down at the table. “Mr. Pitt isn’t in the police anymore. Perhaps we should ask Mr. Tellman and see if he can help.”

The heat burned up Gracie’s cheeks. There was no escape. “I already asked ’im,” she said miserably, looking down at the table-top. “ ’E says as there in’t nothin’ ’e can do, ’cos Martin’s got a right ter come an’ go without tellin’ ’is sister. It in’t no crime.”

“Oh.” Charlotte sat silently for several moments. Carefully she tried her tea and found it just cool enough to drink. “Then we’ll have to do something ourselves,” she said at last. “Tell me everything you know about Tilda and Martin, and about the Garrick house in Torrington Square.”

Gracie felt like a lost sailor who finally sees land on the horizon. There was something they could do. Obediently she told Charlotte the facts of her acquaintance with Tilda, picking out what mattered: her honesty, her stubbornness, the memories of childhood she had spoken about, her dreams of her own family one day, and the things she had shared with her brother over the lonely years of growing up.

Charlotte listened without interrupting, and in the end nodded. “I think you are right to worry,” she agreed. “We need to know where he is and if he is all right. And if he is without a position and is too embarrassed by that to have told his sister, then we must make sure she understands, and then if possible, help him to obtain something else. I suppose you have no idea if he is likely to have done something foolish?”

“I dunno,” Gracie admitted. “Tilda wouldn’t do nothin’ daft, but that don’t mean ’e’s the same. She thinks ’e is-but then she would.”

“It is very hard to think ill of our own,” Charlotte agreed.

Gracie looked up at her, eyes wide. “What are we gonna do?”

“You are going to tell Tilda that we’ll help,” Charlotte answered. “I shall begin to make enquiries about the Garrick household. Stephen Garrick at least will know what happened, even if he does not know where Martin Garvie is right now.”

“Thank yer,” Gracie said very seriously. “Thank yer very much.”

ON THE FOURTH DAY after the murder of Edwin Lovat was discovered, the newspapers openly demanded the arrest, at least for questioning, of Saville Ryerson. He was known to have been on the premises at the time, and the writer of the article did not need to do more than ask what business he would have had there to suggest the answer.

Pitt sat at the breakfast table, tight-lipped, his face pale. Charlotte did not make any comment or otherwise interrupt what was obviously a painful train of thought. The defense of Ryerson which Mr. Gladstone had commanded was becoming more and more difficult. She watched him discreetly, and wished there were some way to offer comfort. But if she were honest, she believed Ryerson was guilty, if not of the crime, then at least of attempting to conceal it. Had someone not called the police, he would have removed the body from where the murder took place and done all he could to obscure the evidence. That was a crime. No ability to solve the cotton industry problems in Manchester could justify that-in fact, there was no stretch of the imagination which could connect it at all with his keeping of a mistress in Eden Lodge. It was a private weakness, an indulgence for which he would now have to pay very heavily indeed.

She looked at the anxiety in Pitt’s face and a wave of anger swept over her that he should be expected to carry the responsibility for rescuing a man from his own folly, and then blamed because he could not do what any fool could see was impossible. He was being coerced into trying to evade a truth which it was both his duty and his own moral need to expose. For years they had used him to do that; now they had forced him into the position of denying the very values which had made him honorable before.

He looked up quickly and caught her glance.

“What?” he asked.

She smiled. “Nothing. I’m going to see Emily this morning. I know Grandmama will be there, and I haven’t really managed to speak to her without embarrassment ever since Mama learned about… what happened to her.” She still found it uncomfortable to speak of… even to Pitt. “It is more than time I did so,” she went on hastily. She had arranged the visit over the telephone the previous evening, after speaking with Gracie. Pitt had a telephone because of his professional need for it, and Emily had one because she could afford pretty well anything she cared for.

The shadow of a smile crossed Pitt’s face for an instant. He was long acquainted with Charlotte’s grandmother and knew her temper of old.

Charlotte said no more about it, and when Pitt left, without letting her know what he hoped to seek or to find that day, she went upstairs and changed into her best morning gown. She did not follow fashion-it was far beyond her financial means, the more so since Pitt had been demoted from being in charge of Bow Street to working for Special Branch-but a well-cut gown in a color that was flattering had a dignity no one could rob from her. She chose a warm, autumn shade to complement her auburn-toned hair and honey-fair complexion. The gown had not the current high-shouldered sleeves, but the almost nonexistent bustle was just right.

It was not an occasion for the omnibus, so she took the price of a hansom out of the housekeeping money, and arrived at Emily’s opulent town house at quarter past ten.

She was shown in by a parlor maid who knew her well and conducted her immediately to Emily’s boudoir-that private sitting room wealthy ladies kept for the entertaining of close friends.

Emily was waiting for her, dressed as always with the utmost elegance, in her favorite pale green which so suited her fair coloring. She stood up as soon as Charlotte was in the room, excitement in her face, her eyes bright. She came forward and gave Charlotte a quick kiss, then stood back. “So what has happened?” she demanded. “You said it was important. It sounds terribly heartless of me to put it into words, I know, when it was a real blow to Thomas, and so unjust, but I really mind his leaving Bow Street. I’ve no idea what cases he has now, but they all seem to be secret.” She stepped back and waved to Charlotte to be seated in one of the soft, floral-fabric-covered chairs. “I’m bored to tears with society, and even politics seems terribly tedious at the moment,” she went on, sweeping her skirts tidily and sitting down herself. “There isn’t even a decent scandal, except the one about the Egyptian woman.” She leaned forward, her face vivid. “Did you know that the newspapers are demanding that Saville Ryerson be arrested as well? Isn’t that absurd?” Her eyes searched Charlotte’s face questioningly. “I suppose Thomas would have been working on that if he were still at Bow Street. Perhaps it’s just as well he isn’t. I wouldn’t like the untangling of that affair!”

“I’m afraid my case is very pedestrian,” Charlotte said, trying to keep her face comparatively expressionless. She could not afford to be sidetracked now, even by the most colorful of scandals. She sat back in the chair. The room was gold and green and there were late yellow roses and earthy-smelling chrysanthemums in a dark green vase on the table. For an instant she was taken back to the house she had grown up in, the comfort and the ignorance of the shadows and poverty in the larger world beyond.

Then the moment passed.

“So what is it?” Emily asked, folding her hands in her lap and paying complete attention. “Give me something to occupy my mind with other than trivia. I am bored to tears with talk about things that don’t matter.” She smiled with faint self-mockery. “I am afraid my social shallowness is passing. Isn’t that alarming? The pursuit of pleasure isn’t fun anymore. It is like too much chocolate soufflé, which a few years ago I wouldn’t have believed possible.”