Callander Square (30 page)

“God! Oh God! No, I didn’t. She died. Freddie was with her. We called him in. Had to. That’s how he knew.”

“What did she die of?”

“I—I don’t know!”

“Do I have to ask the female staff?” Pitt said softly.

“No!” There was a moment’s silence. “No,” Reggie said more quietly. “She had an abortion. It went wrong. That’s why she died. I didn’t know anything about it. I couldn’t have saved her. You’ve got to believe that.”

“But it was your child?”

“How do I know?”

Pitt permitted his disgust to show at last.

“You mean you were sharing her with someone else? The footman, perhaps, or the bootboy?” he said harshly.

“How dare you! I’ll have you remember your place!”

“Your place, at the moment, Mr. Southeron,” Pitt snapped back, “is extremely unpleasant! A parlormaid carrying your child dies in your house from a badly done abortion. You are being blackmailed by your doctor over the affair. Now your doctor is murdered outside your house. What strikes you as the obvious conclusion to draw from that?”

“I—I told you,” Reggie fumbled his words and gasped, “the governess! She was with him in it! He must have been sleeping with her, told her! She was the one who came to me for the money! She must have quarreled with him—a case of thieves falling out! That’s the obvious answer! Who are you going to believe? Me, who hasn’t done anything wrong, or a servant girl who lies and blackmails, and finally kills her lover and accomplice? I ask you!”

Pitt sighed and stood up.

“I shan’t believe anyone, Mr. Southeron, until I have more evidence. But I shall remember what you have said, every word of it. Thank you for your time. Good morning, sir.”

As soon as he had gone Reggie collapsed. It was appalling! God alone knew where the end of it lay. Scandal! Ruin! He felt ill. The room swam around him and darkened into visions of penury—vague, because he had never actually known it—but none the less frightful for that.

He was still sitting slumped over the table when Adelina came in.

“You look ill,” she observed. “Have you eaten too much?”

Her cold unconcern was the last cut to a sore, wounded man.

“Yes, I am ill!” he said angrily. “The police have just been here. Freddie Bolsover has been murdered.” He watched her face, satisfied to see the shock in it.

“Murdered!” she sat down sharply. “How dreadful. Whatever for? Was he robbed?”

“I’ve no idea!” he snapped. “He was just murdered!”

“Poor Sophie,” Adelina stared down the table past Reggie into the distance. “She’ll be quite utterly lost.”

“Never mind about Sophie! What about us? He was murdered, Adelina, don’t you understand that? That means someone murdered him, crept out there in the dark and stuck a knife into him, or hit him over the head, or whatever.”

“Very unpleasant,” she agreed. “People can be very wicked.”

“Is that all you can say?” His voice was rising to a shout, out of control. “God damn it, woman, that bounder from the police all but accused me of it!”

She did not seem impressed, far less frightened.

“Why should they do that? You could have no reason for killing Freddie. He was a friend.”

“He was a blackmailer!”

“Freddie? Nonsense. Who on earth would he blackmail?”

“He’s a doctor, you stupid woman! He could blackmail any of his patients!”

Still she was not apparently moved.

“Doctors are not allowed to tell the things about their patients that are confidential. If they did, they would get no more patients. Freddie would never do that. It would be foolish. And don’t call me stupid, Reggie. It’s very rude, and there’s no need for rudeness. I’m sorry Freddie is dead, but becoming hysterical won’t help.”

“I don’t understand you!” he was angry, frightened, and now utterly bewildered. “You were weeping all over the place about Helena, and here is Freddie dead and you don’t seem to care at all!”

“That was different. Helena was carrying a child.” Her voice dropped at the memory of it. “That child died before it was ever born. If you were a woman, you would understand that. I look at my own children, and of course I weep. Children are all a woman really has.” She looked at him with a sudden harshness. “We carry them, and bear them, bring them into the world, love them, listen to them, advise them, and see that they are married well. All you do is pay the bills, and boast about them if they do something well. I’m sorry Freddie is dead, but I really can’t weep about it. I shall be sorry for Sophie of course, because she has no children. And how do you know Freddie was a blackmailer?”

“What?”

“You said Freddie was a blackmailer. How do you know that?”

“Oh,” he scrambled for an answer, “someone told me. Confidence, you know, can’t tell you about it.”

“Don’t be fatuous, Reggie. People don’t tell you about things like that. He must have been blackmailing you. Was he?”

“Of course not! There’s nothing to blackmail me about!”

“Then why do the police think you killed him? It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know!” he yelled. “I didn’t damn well ask!”

“I thought it might have been about Dolly.”

He froze. She looked like a stranger sitting at the head of the table, monstrous and unknown, inscrutable. She was saying something appalling, and there was no expression on her face except a mild curiosity.

“D—Dolly?” he stuttered.

“I could have forgiven you for sleeping with her, as long as you were discreet,” she said, looking directly at him. It seemed as if it was the first time she had ever really looked at him. “But not for killing her child, Reggie; never for that.”

“I didn’t kill the child!” He was becoming hysterical. He could hear it himself but could do nothing to stop it. “It was an abortion. It went wrong! I didn’t do it!”

“Don’t lie, Reggie. Of course you did it. You allowed her to seek an abortion in the back streets instead of sending her away to the country to bear the child. She could have stayed there, or you could have had the child adopted. You didn’t. I shall not forgive you for that, Reggie; not ever.” She stood up again and turned away. “I trust you did not have anything to do with Freddie’s death. It would have been extremely stupid of you.”

“Stupid! Is that all you can say? Stupid! Do you actually imagine I could have anything to do with killing Freddie?”

“No. I think it would be most unlike you to have done anything so decisive. But I am glad to hear you say it. I hope you are telling the truth.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“I don’t think I care very much, except for the scandal. If you manage to keep the police out of it, that is all I ask.”

He stared at her helplessly. Suddenly he was cold, as if a longworn skin had been ripped from him and left him naked. He watched her go out of the room and felt like a child in the dark.

Having told the police that Jemima was the one who had blackmailed him, and therefore having been unable to go back on it, it seemed the obvious, ideal solution to blame her for Freddie’s murder also. Now he must make it stick. He must behave as if he believed it to be the truth. It was inconceivable that a man, knowing such a thing, would keep in his house, tutoring his children, a woman who was a blackmailer and a murderess. The only possible course was to dismiss her immediately.

It was unfortunate, of course. In the circumstances, there would be no one who would take her in, but what else was he to do? Pity he had not taken the opportunity a few minutes ago of telling Adelina—but the thought of Adelina was highly uncomfortable at the moment, better removed from mind. He must find Jemima and tell her she must leave. He need not explain to her precisely why, which would be most embarrassing—he could avoid that very well on the claim that he would not accuse her before the police did, and perhaps jeopardize the justice of her cause. Yes, that sounded excellent. He even felt a flush of rectitude, and rose from the table to set about it immediately.

Charlotte heard of it at midday when Jemima arrived on the doorstep, white-faced, a boxchest on the pavement beside her, a hansom clopping away already reaching the corner of the street. She must have stood on the step for some moments, afraid to knock.

Charlotte answered the door herself, since there was no one else; one would hardly wish to send Mrs. Wickes, with her hands wet, apron splashed, hair sprouting like a bollard willow.

“Jemima!” She saw the chest. “Whatever has happened? Come in, you look frozen and starved. Can you lift the other end of the box with me? We can’t leave it there, or someone may steal it.”

Obediently Jemima bent, and a few minutes later they were both inside and Charlotte looked at her more closely.

“What is it?” she said gently. “Has Mr. Southeron accused you of blackmailing him?”

Jemima looked up, shock and a kind of relief in her face that she did not have to break the news herself.

“You know?”

Charlotte was ashamed now for not having warned her, although perhaps it would have done little good. She should have thought of some way for Pitt to prevent Reggie giving tongue to his lies.

“Yes. I meant to tell you when I came the other day.” She put out her hands and clasped Jemima’s. “I’m so sorry. When I saw how you felt about Brandy Balantyne, I couldn’t speak of Reggie and his maids in the same breath, for fear you would think I believed you were no better.”

Jemima looked bewildered, but there was no accusation in her eyes.

“How did you know?” she repeated. “Does everyone know except me?” She swallowed hard. “Why, Charlotte? Why should he say such a thing? Certainly he lay with Mary Ann, but everyone knew! I never spoke of it, least of all to him—and asking for money! Why should he say I did?”

“Because someone was blackmailing him, and he did not wish to tell the truth of it,” Charlotte replied. “It was easy to blame you, because you are least likely to be able to defend yourself.”

“But why should anyone blackmail him over that? It is rather squalid, it is true, and it is an abuse of Mary Ann, and of his wife; but it is not a crime; it would not even be so much of a scandal: not worth paying to avoid, anyway.”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte admitted. “But come and sit down. Let me make you something to drink to warm you. I think I have a little cocoa. We must plan what to do next.” She busied herself quickly. They were in the kitchen anyway, it being the warmest room in the house. Charlotte could not afford to burn a fire in the parlor except in the evenings. Mrs. Wickes had finished the floor and gone upstairs to sweep, so they were alone.

“You can sleep in the nursery,” Charlotte went on, stirring the cocoa with a wooden spoon to get rid of the lumps. “The bed is a little small, but it will do you for a while. I’m afraid it is all we have—”

“I can’t stay here,” Jemima said quickly. “Oh, Charlotte, I am grateful, but the police will be looking for me soon. Blackmail is a crime, you know. I cannot bring that disgrace upon you—”

“Oh!” Charlotte turned round in surprise, forgetting Jemima knew so little of her. “Don’t worry about that. My husband is a policeman; in fact he is the policeman in charge of this case. He knows you did not blackmail anyone. At least,” she corrected herself, “he does not believe you did. Don’t worry, he will discover the truth. And Dr. Bolsover has been murdered. Did you know that? I found his body this morning. I was on the way again to warn you about Mr. Southeron when I nearly fell over it. Maybe he was the real blackmailer.”

“You—the police—?” Jemima was utterly confused. “But, but you are not married. Are you not Lady Ashworth’s sister? At least that is what General Balantyne said. I obtained your address from him this morning. I had to lie. I said I wished to write you a letter.” She winced and looked down for a moment. “Before Mr. Southeron should tell anyone about me and I should find no one would open their doors to me. I did not know who else to turn to—” Her eyes brimmed over and she dropped her head to hide her distress.

Charlotte put down the cocoa and went to her, putting her arms round her. For a little while Jemima wept silently; then she pulled herself together, blew her nose hard, excused herself to wash her face, and returned downstairs to take cocoa, now ready, and biscuits. Afterward she faced Charlotte and declared herself ready for battle.

Charlotte smiled back at her.

“Thomas will discover the truth,” she said firmly, although she knew that that was not necessarily the case. Sometimes crimes remained unsolved. “And if possible we shall help him,” she went on, “to have it done the more quickly. I think I must send a letter to Emily, to acquaint her with the latest events. She may be able to assist us too.”

“You are marvelous,” Jemima smiled rather weakly. “Are you so used to murders, that they do not frighten you anymore?”

“Oh no!” The horror of Cater Street came back to her with all its terror and grief. She felt a quick prickle of tears for Sarah. “Oh no,” she said quietly. “They frighten me very much, not just murder, but all the other dark things it stirs in even those who are barely involved in the first crime. It seems so often one crime begets another. People do such strange things to cover guilt. We can become so cruel and so selfish when we are afraid. Murder and investigation reveal to us so many things about each other which we would rather not have known. Believe me, I am frightened by it. But I think I would prefer that it should always frighten me. Not to be frightened would mean that I had lost the understanding of it. But it is my nature to fight, and we shall discover the truth of this yet, whomever it may involve!”

When Pitt arrived home late that evening he was only mildly surprised to see Jemima sitting with Charlotte by the fire. She was both embarrassed and nervous to begin with, but he went to some effort to put her at ease, even though he was appallingly tired, and by the time she retired, she looked as if she might sleep.

After she had gone, he told Charlotte that Reggie had accused her of the murder of Freddie also, and was relieved that Charlotte did not blaze up in temper, nor dissolve in tears, although he had never considered the latter likely.

In the morning he set out again to Callander Square, walking some part of the distance, the better to enable himself to think.