Anne Perry - Rutland Place

For once, Charlotte was staggered beyond words.

"Done away with me?" Ottilie said incredulously. "How absolutely marvelous! You know, I do believe the thought oc shy;curred to Papa, only he didn't have the nerve!" She began to laugh; it rose bubbling in her throat and rang out in rich delight. "How superb!" She clung onto Inigo's arm. "Do you mean the police are actually questioning Papa as to what he did with me, because they suspect him of murder? I do wish I could see his face as he tries to explain himself out of that! He'd almost rather die than tell anyone what I really am!"

Inigo kept his arm around her, but suddenly his humor vanished.

"It's a good deal more than that, Tillie. There has been a murder, a real one. Mina Spencer-Brown was poisoned. She was a Peeping Tom, and it rather looks as if she saw something worth killing to keep secret. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the police that your disappearance might be that something."

Ottilie's laughter vanished instantly, and her hands tightened over his arm, long, slender hands with knuckles white where they gripped the stuff of his sleeve.

"Oh God! You don't think-"

"No," he said quickly, "it's not that. Papa has no idea-and I really don't think Mama cares. In fact, it has occurred to me, looking at her face across the table, that half of her rather wants everyone to know, especially him."

"But you put them back?" she said urgently. "You promised-"

"Of course I did, once I knew where they belonged. No one else knows." He turned to Charlotte. "I'm afraid my mother has a regrettable habit of picking up small things that do not belong to her. I do my best to replace them as soon as possible. I'm also afraid I took rather longer than usual with your mother's locket, because she said nothing about losing it so I didn't know to whom it belonged. I doubt I need to explain all the reasons for that?"

"No," Charlotte said quietly. "No, better not." She was puzzled. She liked Ambrosine Charrington. "Why on earth should she resort to petty stealing?"

Inigo pulled over another chair, and he and Ottilie sat down. Seeing them so close together, Charlotte realized the resem shy;blance was quite marked. There could be no doubt who "Ada Church" was.

"Escape," Ottilie said simply, looking at Charlotte. "Perhaps you can't understand that? But if you had lived with Papa for thirty years, you might. Sometimes you get to feel so imprisoned by other people's ideas and habits and expectations that part of you grows to hate them, and you want to break their ideals, smash them, shock those people into really looking at you for once, reaching through the glass to touch the real flesh beyond."

"It's all right," Charlotte shook her head. "You don't need to explain. I've wanted to stand on the table and scream myself, once or twice, tell everybody what I really thought. Perhaps after thirty years I would have. Do you like it here?" She looked around at the tables, the sea of bodies and faces.

Ottilie smiled, without pretense. "Yes. I love it. I've cried myself to sleep a few times, and I've had long, lonely days-and nights. And a good few times I've thought I was a fool, or worse. But when I hear the music, the people singing with me, and the applause-yes, I love it. I daresay in ten years or fifteen I shall have nothing but vanity and memories, and wish I'd stayed at home and married suitably-but I don't think so."

Charlotte found herself smiling as well; the champagne still glowed inside her.

"You might marry well anyway," she said, and then suddenly her tongue felt awkward, and the next sentence did not sound quite as she had intended it should. "People from music halls sometimes do, so someone said-didn't they?"

Ottilie looked at her brother. "You've been filling her with champagne," she accused.

"Of course. That way she'll have an excuse in the morning. And I daresay not recall quite how much she enjoyed slumming!" He stood up. "Have some yourself, Tillie. I must take Charlotte home before her husband sends half the metropolitan police out for her!"

Charlotte did not hear what he said. The music had started in her head again, and she was happy for him to lead her to the door, collect her cloak, and send for the carriage. The air outside was sharp; its coldness made her feel a little dizzy.

He handed her up and closed the door, and the horses clopped gently through silent streets.

Charlotte began to sing to herself and was still going through the chorus for the seventh time when Inigo helped her down outside her own front door.

"Champagne Charlie is my name!" she sang cheerfully and rather loudly. "Champagne drinking is my game! There is noth shy;ing like the fizz, fizz, fizz. I'll drink every drop there is, is, is!

I'm the darling"-she hesitated, then remembered-"of the barmaids! And Champagne Charlie is my name!"

The door swung open, and she looked up to see Pitt staring at her, his face white and furious, the gas lamp in the hallway behind him making a halo around his head.

"She's perfectly safe," Inigo said soberly. "I took her to meet my sister-after whom I believe you have been inquiring?"

"I-" Charlotte hiccuped and slid neatly to the floor.

"Sorry," Inigo said with a slight smile. "Good night!"

Charlotte was not even aware of Pitt bending down to pick her up and heave her inside with a comment that would have blis shy;tered her ears had she heard it.

Charlotte woke up with the most appalling headache she could ever remember. Pitt was standing at the far side of the bedroom opening the curtains, and she could not even see the red flowers on them. The light was painful; she closed her eyes in defense against it, then rolled over to hide her face in the pillow. The movement was a mistake. Hammer blows shivered through her skull and shot round her forehead, tightening the very bones.

She had never felt like this carrying Jemima! A little sickness in the mornings certainly-but never a head as if her brains were trying to beat their way out!

"Good morning." Pitt's voice cut through the thick silence, cold and definitely far from solicitous.

"I feel awful," she said pathetically.

"I'm sure you do," he said.

She sat up very slowly, holding her head with both hands.

"I think I may be sick."

"I shouldn't be in the least surprised." He was distinctly unmoved.

"Thomas!" She hauled herself out of bed, ready to cry with misery and an awful feeling of unexplained rejection. Then suddenly the whole evening returned to her-the music hall, Ottilie, Inigo Charrington, the champagne, and the silly song.

"Oh God!" Her legs folded under her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed sharply. She was still in half her underwear, and there were pins in her hair, uncomfortable, poking into her head. "Oh, Thomas! I'm so sorry!" j

"Are you going to be sick?" he asked with only slightly more f concern., I

"Yes, I think so."

He came over and picked up the chamber pot from under the bed. He put it in her lap for her and pushed back her hair.

"I suppose you realize what could have happened to you?" he said, the ice in his voice changing to anger. "If Inigo Charrington or his father had killed Ottilie, it would have been the simplest thing in the world for them to have killed you too!"

It was several minutes before Charlotte was well enough to defend herself, to explain all her precautions. I

"I took Emily's carriage and Emily's footman!" she said at last, gulping to get her breath. "I'm not entirely stupid!" k

He took the pot from her and offered her a glass of water and F a towel.

"That's a subject I wouldn't try debating just now if I were you," he said sourly. "Do you feel better now?"

"Yes, thank you." She would like to have been dignified, even aloof, but she had placed herself in an impossible position for it. "Everyone knew I was with him! He couldn't have done' anything and got away with it, and I made sure he was as aware of that as I."