Anne Perry - Death On Blackheath

Charlotte shivered. ‘Are you saying that now he wants to complete it by having an affair with Bennett’s widow?’

‘Well, it’s not impossible, is it?’

‘No …’

‘In fact it’s not completely impossible that he started the affair before Bennett was dead!’ Emily continued.

‘But if Bennett were all that marvellous, why was Ailsa willing to betray him, and with his own brother?’ Charlotte argued.

Emily pulled her mouth into a grimace. ‘Not all men who seem handsome and clever and charming are all that interesting when you get to know them … well …’

‘You mean in bed?’

‘Of course I do.’ Then Emily laughed. ‘Oh dear! I’m not talking about Jack. That did sound a bit clumsy, didn’t it?’

Charlotte was too relieved to argue. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It definitely did! But I accept your denial. Do you really think it could go that far back? That’s … years! Poor Rosalind. No wonder she looks a bit … crumpled.’

The shadow passed over Emily’s face again. ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ She hesitated. ‘Do I?’

Charlotte had walked straight into a trap — perhaps not an intentional one, but very complete none the less. And Emily would see a lie, or an evasion instantly. She always had done.

‘Compared with the way you usually are, yes, you do,’ she said, hating each word as it came from her mouth. Had Emily wanted her to lie, even if neither of them believed it? It was too late now. She had to add something, retrieve hope from it. ‘Because you believe Jack has fallen out of love with you,’ she added. ‘That doesn’t make it true! There are people who believe the world is flat! They even burned people for it, once.’

‘Actually several times,’ Emily said with an attempt at a smile.

‘What’s the point in burning anyone several times?’ Charlotte asked without taking a breath. ‘Seems a little excessive, doesn’t it?’

Emily laughed in spite of herself. ‘Are you trying to make me feel better?’

‘I’m trying to make you see sense.’ Charlotte poured some tea for each of them. It was Earl Grey, subtle and very fragrant; the exact opposite of the conversation.

‘I’ve had another thought,’ Emily went on. ‘It’s pretty awful! But what if Dudley and Ailsa really fell in love with each other, away back when she was married to Bennett? And what if it’s far worse than that? Are we absolutely certain that Bennett’s death was natural? He was awfully young to die, when he wasn’t fragile before.’

Charlotte was stunned. ‘You mean that Dudley killed him? That was the secret that Kitty found out? How on earth would she?’

‘I don’t know! Ladies’ maids find out all kinds of things. I’d hate even to imagine what mine knows about me. In some ways, more than Jack does. Even more than you do!’

Charlotte followed the thought. ‘Then why is Rosalind still alive and well? Or does she know, and has some kind of way of keeping herself safe? For heaven’s sake, why bother? What on earth is a husband worth if he would so much rather be somewhere else?’

‘Revenge? I don’t know.’ Emily leaned forward. ‘Maybe they didn’t kill Bennett. Maybe he found out and was so broken-hearted he committed suicide, and they covered it up? I’m sure a decent doctor could be persuaded to be discreet.’

‘And that’s the scandal?’ Charlotte thought about it for several moments. ‘That would be pretty awful, wouldn’t it? What a betrayal! What a rotten tragedy. Dudley couldn’t afford to let that be known. It’s so … ugly!’ She shut her eyes as if she could make the thought disappear. ‘I wonder if you go on loving someone after that, or if you end up hating them because every time you think of them, even see their face, you are reminded of what you have become because of your feeling for them. Don’t you think a really good love should make you strive to be the very best you can? The noblest, the bravest, the gentlest?’

Emily stared at her. ‘Yes,’ she said very quietly. Slowly her shoulders eased as the tension slipped away from her. ‘Yes. I do.’ She smiled. ‘I’m glad you came this evening, and that you said what you did. I want to think about myself, for a little while, and what I need to do. We’ll go on with the wretched Kynastons tomorrow, or the next day.’ She reached for the bell to ask the footman to fetch the carriage round to take Charlotte home.

Pitt had debated the issue briefly with himself as to whether he should repeat to Stoker the information he had received from Carlisle, with the obvious necessity that he must also tell him all that he knew about Carlisle. That included the history between them, or as much of it as was required to have Stoker understand why Pitt trusted him, and the nature of the debt he felt towards him.

He realised the following morning that in fact the conflict in his mind was only as to how he would do it, what words he would use, and how much he could avoid discussing it all. It had begun with Carlisle owing a debt to Pitt for his silence in the Resurrection Row affair. Then, over the years, the balance had shifted the other way. Now, with the rescue from Talbot, the weight was on the other side: Pitt owed the greater debt.

Was that so Carlisle could collect the payment now? That was unlike the man Pitt had known. He would have abhorred such manipulation. Then what for? It surely had to do with debt — and honour.

There was a sharp tap on the door. He had barely answered it when it opened and Stoker came in, closing it behind him. He looked scrubbed and eager, but there were dark lines of tiredness in his face, hollows around the eyes. He had pursued this case as if something he had learned about the missing woman had made her particularly real to him.

But then Stoker was a man who did not do anything in half-measure. If he would have denied caring about the woman and said it was simply the best way to do the job, he would have been wrong: it was both.

‘Sir?’ Stoker interrupted Pitt’s thoughts, impatient to know why he had been sent for.

‘Sit down,’ Pitt told him.

Stoker obeyed, not taking his eyes from Pitt’s face.

Very briefly Pitt told him the history of events in Resurrection Row, the spectacular disinterment of corpses to expose murder and corruption, over a decade ago, and his first encounter with Somerset Carlisle.

Stoker stared at him with disbelief, laughter, and then amazement.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he apologised, regaining a more sober expression. ‘You’re not saying Carlisle’s behind these bodies, are you? I could see why the other, but …’ His eyes widened. ‘You are! Why? This is … grotesque …’

‘So was the other, believe me,’ Pitt answered him. ‘And yes, I am sorry but I think he is behind these bodies too. He has the ingenuity and the means-’

‘Not without help, sir!’ Stoker interrupted.

‘I dare say his manservant is involved, and would probably die before admitting it. He’s been with Carlisle for thirty years. I looked into that.’

‘But why?’ Stoker demanded. Then he stopped abruptly, understanding flooding his face. ‘To force you to investigate Kynaston! But what for? He didn’t kill Kitty Ryder, because no one did. What could she know about him that would be worth that much? And how would Carlisle hear about it anyway? She wouldn’t know someone like that … would she?’

‘I doubt it. Carlisle knows about it from Sir John Ransom.’

‘Oh!’ Stoker let out his breath in a sigh. ‘Are we talking treason, sir?’

‘Yes, we are.’

‘That’s … very ugly. Then we have to get him, whatever it costs. I’d like to meet this fellow, Carlisle. Shake his hand.’