Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

‘Jack will be pleased to know that you love him,’ Emily said icily. ‘Even if it does appear to infect your imagination with grotesque fantasies. If every woman in London were to murder their maids because their husbands slept with them, we would be up to our knees in blood!’

‘Not likely.’ Charlotte was equally icy. ‘She wasn’t stabbed. She was beaten, her face mutilated, and her body left up in the gravel pit to be scavenged by animals. Not much blood at all.’

‘You are disgusting!’ Emily spat out the words.

‘Don’t be so stupid!’ Charlotte snapped. ‘It’s you I love, and I like Jack, very much, but that will cease instantly if he hurts you.’

‘He isn’t-’ Emily began, but stopped equally quickly. When Charlotte turned to look at her she saw the tears brim over her eyes and down her cheeks. At another time she would have said something, even hugged her. Now the emotion between them was too brittle. She sat in silence for several moments, allowing Emily time to regain her composure. When she thought it was long enough, she began another conversation. ‘What is Rosalind like?’ she asked. She did not have to feign interest.

‘Actually, I like her,’ Emily replied, her voice almost level again. ‘She is much more individual than she appears at first. She reads quite a lot, and she knows about all sorts of unusual things: adventures, explorers, the people who go to Mesopotamia, and Greece, and dig up tombs and find amazing things — artefacts and writings. And she has great knowledge of plants. I went to Kew Gardens with her, and she could tell me where dozens of the different trees and flowers came from, and who found them. I started paying attention to her out of courtesy, but quite quickly found I was genuinely interested. And she is nothing like as bland or easily misled as I used to suppose.’

‘Is that why she is going to this lecture?’ Charlotte asked, surprised. Pitt had said little about Rosalind, and Charlotte had assumed her to be rather colourless. Perhaps she was guilty of supposing that because her husband had a mistress, then she must be dull. Did all married women suppose that? If a man seeks another woman, then his wife must be cold, tedious, plain — something one could avoid being oneself, so it would never happen to you?

‘I look forward to getting to know her better,’ she said.

Emily might be unhappy but she had lost none of the social skills. She could still make careful planning look like complete chance. She and Charlotte found themselves standing close to Rosalind and Ailsa Kynaston. They were related by marriage, and clearly knew each other well, but no one would have taken them for sisters. Rosalind was soberly dressed in a deep plum colour, which looked gracious and expensive, and yet it lacked the flair that Emily could have achieved with far less.

Ailsa, on the other hand, had the advantage of height, and the grace it gave her movement. There was a vitality in her face and a silver-pale gleam to her hair that attracted the eye, willingly or not. The sombre blues of her gown were of no importance; if anything they were a contrast that heightened her own energy.

They greeted each other with pleasure, as if it were good fortune that had placed them so closely. Both Ailsa and Rosalind remembered Charlotte and affected to be happy to see her again. If they connected her immediately with Pitt and the wretched business that had brought him into Rosalind’s house, they were too polite to say so.

Conversation was easy and touched only on trivial things. Emily was at her best, being both interesting and amusing. Particularly she made Rosalind laugh, leaving Charlotte free merely to listen, and to watch the language of look and gesture between Rosalind and Ailsa. Perhaps that was what Emily had intended. If she had, she could not have contrived it better.

‘I am pleased so many people have come,’ Rosalind said, glancing around at the steadily increasing crowd. ‘I admit, I had feared there would be embarrassingly little support.’

‘We will all leave grateful that our spring, if chilly, is not nearly as harsh as it could be,’ Emily agreed.

Ailsa lifted her graceful shoulders a little. ‘The north has a clean beauty that many people admire,’ she said. She was not exactly contradicting Emily, but there was a coolness in her voice.

‘Do you know the north well?’ Emily asked with enthusiasm.

For a moment Ailsa hesitated, as though she were unprepared for the question.

‘I have travelled north,’ she conceded. ‘It has great beauty, and one becomes acclimatised to the cold. Of course, summer is not cold at all, and brighter than here … quite often.’

‘So you will be familiar with places like the ones Dr Arbuthnott will be mentioning,’ Emily concluded. She turned to Rosalind. ‘Have you been there also?’

Rosalind smiled. ‘Oh, no. I’m afraid I have never been further north than Paris, which I find a marvellous city.’

‘Paris is south from here, my dear,’ Ailsa said gently.

Charlotte looked at her face. She was smiling but there was no warmth in it, in spite of her tone. If she had liked Rosalind, Charlotte knew that she would not have made the observation at all.

Rosalind coloured very slightly. ‘I know that. Perhaps I would have been clearer if I had said “in Europe”.’

Several appropriate remarks occurred to Charlotte, which would have put Ailsa in her place, but she refrained from making them.

‘I would love to travel,’ she said instead. ‘Perhaps one day I will. But I still find people more interesting than even the most marvellous cities. And I am grateful that there are men like Dr Arbuthnott who will bring us photographs and magic lantern images to show the beauty of the places I will never visit.’

‘A lifetime’s worth of them,’ Ailsa observed.

Charlotte pretended to misunderstand her. She was irritated at having her own life dismissed in such a way, but more offended for Rosalind, because to judge from her face, she felt the cut more keenly.

‘Really? He did not look more than forty-five in the photographs. But perhaps they are not recent?’

Ailsa stared at her, then quite suddenly a flash of amusement lit her face, almost appreciation. Charlotte realised she respected someone who would fight back. She smiled at Ailsa with all the considerable charm she could call on when she wished, and saw the recognition of it, and a quick acknowledgement.

They took their seats and an expectant hush settled over the room. Dr Arbuthnott appeared, to applause, and the lecture began.

Certainly what he had to say was interesting, and to Charlotte completely unfamiliar, but she could not afford to turn her attention to it fully. She and Emily had finally decided to take seats on the aisle immediately behind those of Ailsa and Rosalind. This gave her the opportunity to watch them both, while still appearing to be fully intent upon the lecturer.

Of course it would be ill-mannered to whisper to each other during the time when Dr Arbuthnott was actually speaking, but it seemed to Charlotte completely natural, and even expected, that at suitable moments one would speak to one’s companion to remark on something of particular beauty or surprise. She did so to Emily without giving it thought.

Then she faced forward again, and began to study the two women in front of her. Both sat straight up, as governesses would have taught them. Beauty was a gift; deportment was acquired, as was graceful speech both in timbre and pronunciation. Having something of interest to say was, of course, quite another matter.

Rosalind inclined very slightly towards Ailsa, and murmured to her, but so quietly Charlotte did not hear any of it.

Ailsa nodded, but did not reply. She did not lean her body towards Rosalind. A moment later she looked around the audience as discreetly as was possible, as if searching for someone she knew. Apparently she did not find them, because she did so again at the next opportunity, without being obvious about it. Charlotte was very curious as to who it might be.