Anne Perry - Callander Square

“My dear, Inspector Pitt believes that the mother of these unfortunate children may be someone in our house,” Carlton said courteously. “I regret it is necessary that you should endeavor to assist him.”

Her face paled a little.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Of course it can really make no difference, but I hate to think of it being someone I know. Are you sure, Inspector?” She turned to look at him. She was a most attractive woman, there was a warmth about her more appealing than beauty.

“No, ma’am, but I have cause to believe it.”

“For what reason?” she asked.

Pitt took a deep breath and plunged in.

“It would seem that someone in this house is having an affair, a love affair.” He watched her face. For a moment she remained perfectly serene, merely interested: then there was a slight tightening of the hands on the plum-colored silk of her dress. A faint color spread up her throat. Pitt glanced across at Carlton, but he appeared detached, unobservant.

“Indeed?” she said after the slightest hesitation.

He went on.

“There is a strong possibility that as a result of the attachment, she may have become with child.”

The color deepened painfully in her face. She turned away so that the shadow fell across her.

“I see.”

Carlton still seemed unaware of anything but the concern of a mistress for her maids.

“Perhaps you had better make inquiries, my dear. Is that what you wish, Inspector?”

“If Lady Carlton feels she might discover something.” Pitt looked at her, deliberately choosing his words so that she should understand his meaning, in spite of his apparent casualness.

Euphemia kept her face from the light.

“What is it that you wish to know, Mr. Pitt?”

“How long the-attachment-has existed,” he said quietly.

She took a deep breath.

“It may not be,” she struggled for precisely the right expression and failed, “of the nature, or the-the emotions that you suppose.”

“The emotions are not our concern, my dear,” Carlton said quietly. “And the nature of it can hardly be in question, since there have been two dead children found in the square.”

She swiveled round to stare at them, horror in her face, eyes wide.

“You cannot suppose-I mean-you cannot leap to judge that because someone is-has an attachment, that they are responsible for those-deaths! There may be any number of people in the square who have some relationship or other- some-”

“There is a world of difference between a mild flirtation and an affair that produces two children, Euphemia.” Carlton still did not lose his courtesy, his air of judiciousness, almost indifference. “We are not speaking of a mere admiration.”

“Of course not!” she said sharply, then as his high face smoothed a little in surprise, she regained control of herself with an effort. Pitt, standing beside her, saw the muscles in her throat contract, the material of her dress strain as she held her breath in. He wondered if Carlton were as oblivious of her turmoil as he appeared. They seemed an ill-matched couple in more than years. Was she a young woman trapped by ambitious or impecunious parents in a marriage of convenience-their convenience? It flickered to his mind to wonder what Charlotte would have thought, even what she might have done, had it been she. He determined to meet young Brandon Balantyne as soon as possible.

“I will discover what I can, Mr. Pitt,” Euphemia looked directly at him, meeting his eyes with a direct, golden amber glaze. “But if anyone in my house has an attachment of such a standing, I know nothing of it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said softly. He knew what she was trying to say, that she had understood him, and that she was denying the length of her own involvement, but he could not afford to believe her, unsubstantiated. He excused himself and left with the same feeling of sadness he had felt innumerable times before when he first glimpsed the truth of a tragedy that had turned into a crime.

Emily had no intention whatsoever of obeying Charlotte’s instructions, except insofar as she would exercise a little more caution than she had hitherto. She would no longer directly question anyone, although in truth, Sophie Bolsover had hardly required it. Instead she would cultivate friendships; and with such an end in view she again called at Callander Square, this time specifically to see Christina. She had acquired a piece of information regarding a dressmaker, which she knew would be of interest to Christina, and took the liberty of calling in the morning when she would not run into the social ritual of the afternoon.

The door was answered by the footman Max.

“Good morning, Lady Ashworth,” he said, showing only the slightest surprise. His dark eyes flickered down her habit appreciatively, then up again to her face. She stared back at him coldly.

“Good morning. Is Miss Balantyne at home?”

“Yes, my lady. If you care to come in, I will tell her you are here.” He backed away, pulling the door wider. She followed him into the hall, and then into the morning room where there was already a fire burning.

“Can I bring you anything, ma’am?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she replied, deliberately not looking at him.

He smiled very slightly, inclined his head, and left her alone.

She had been waiting about ten minutes and was beginning to become a little impatient when finally Christina came in. Emily turned to greet her, and was surprised to see her looking quite casual, almost disheveled. Her hair was less than perfectly done, there were dark wisps lopsidedly on her neck, and she looked unbecomingly pale.

“My dear, have I caught you at an inconvenient time?” Emily had nearly asked if she were unwell, then realized that to suggest someone looked ill was less than flattering, and she did not wish to jeopardize Christina’s somewhat tenuous friendship so soon.

“I confess,” Christina put her hand on the back of the chair and held it firmly, “I do not feel in the best of health this morning. Most unusual, for me.”

“Pray sit down,” Emily went toward her, taking her hand. “I do most sincerely hope it is but a passing indisposition, a slight chill, perhaps? After all, the change in the weather can so easily cause such things.” She was doubtful in her mind as she said it. Christina was an extremely healthy girl and she showed none of the signs of a chill, no rasping in the throat, no running nose or feverishness.

Christina slid into the chair. She looked uncommonly pale and there were the faintest of beads of perspiration on her skin.

“Perhaps a little tisane?” Emily suggested. “I’ll call the footman.”

Christina protested and shook her head, but Emily had already rung the bell. She stood by it, and when Max appeared she spoke over Christina’s head to him.

“Miss Balantyne is feeling a little unwell. Will you please have cook brew her a tisane, and send it up?”

The man’s heavy eyes looked across at Christina and Emily caught the glance. He looked away quickly and retreated to obey.

“I am sorry to have found you so,” Emily said with the best mixture of cheerfulness and sympathy she could manage. “I only came to tell you the name of the dressmaker you were inquiring for. I managed to persuade her to consider us both, although she is in the most absolute demand. She has such skill in cutting she can make even the ugliest creatures look graceful,” she smiled at Christina’s white face. “And meticulous at finishing off, no threads or half-stitched buttons. And she is so clever at designing she can hide a few extra inches so one’s own mother would not know one had put on weight.”

Christina blushed suddenly and deeply.