Charlotte was genuinely pleased to see her; it had been some little while since they had spent any time together. She put her arms around her in a swift hug.
Emily responded warmly but with impatience.
“What has happened?” she repeated urgently. “Who is dead? How? And what has it to do with Mama?”
“Sit down.” Charlotte pointed to one of the kitchen chairs. “It’s quite a long story, and it won’t make a lot of sense unless I tell it from the beginning. Would you like some luncheon?”
“If you insist. But tell me who is dead, before I explode! And what has it to do with Mama? From the way you wrote, she is in danger herself.”
“A woman called Mina Spencer-Brown is dead. At first it looked like suicide, but now Thomas says it is almost certainly murder. I have onion soup—would you like some?”
“No, I would not! Whatever possessed you to cook onion soup?”
“I felt like it. I’ve wanted onion soup for days now.”
Emily regarded her with a look of pain.
“If you had to have a craving because of your condition, couldn’t you have made it for something a little more civilized? Really, Charlotte! Onions! They are socially impossible! Where on earth can we go calling after onion soup?”
“I can’t help it. At least they are not out of season, or ridiculously expensive. You can afford to have a craving for fresh apricots or pheasant under glass if you wish, but I cannot.”
Emily’s face tightened. “Who is Mina Spencer-Brown? And what has she to do with Mama? Charlotte, if you have got me here simply because you want to meddle in one of Thomas’ cases”—she took a deep breath and pulled a face—“I would love to have an excuse to interfere! Murder is much more exciting than Society, even if it terrifies me sick at times and makes me weep because the solution is always so wretchedly sad.” She clenched her fist on the table. “I do think you might have told me the truth, instead of a pack of silly stories about Mama. I put off a really rather good luncheon to come here. And you offer me boiled onion soup!”
Memories flickered through Charlotte’s mind for a moment: the terrible corpse in the closed garden in Callander Square; and standing side by side with Emily, paralyzed with fright, when Paul Alaric found them at the end of the murders in Paragon Walk. Then she remembered the present again, and all the tingle and beating of the blood vanished.
“It is to do with Mama,” she said soberly. She served the soup and bread and sat down. “It will need salting. I forgot. Do you recall Monsieur Alaric?”
“Don’t be a fool!” Emily said with raised eyebrows. She reached for the salt and sprinkled a little. “How could I possibly forget him—even if he were not still my neighbor? He is one of the most charming men I have ever met. He can converse upon almost any subject as if he were interested. Why on earth does Society consider it fashionable to affect to be bored? It is really very tedious.” She smiled. “You know, I never really knew if he was aware quite how fascinated we all were by him, did you? How much do you think it was merely the challenge of his being a mystery, and that each of us wished to outdo the other by winning his attentions?”
“Only partly.” Charlotte had him so clearly in her mind even now, here in her own kitchen, it had to be something more than that. “He was able to laugh at us and yet at the same time make us believe that he liked us.”
“Indeed?” Emily’s eyes widened and her delicate nose flared a little. “I find that a most infuriating mixture. And I am perfectly sure that Selena at least desired of him a great deal more than simply to be ‘liked’! Friendship does not arouse that kind of excitement and discomfort in anyone!”
“He has become acquainted with Mama.” Charlotte hoped for a considerable reaction from Emily. She was disappointed: Emily was not interested.
“This soup is really rather nice with salt in it,” she remarked with surprise. “But I shall have to sit at the far side of the room and shout at everyone. You might have thought of that! What if Mama has met Monsieur Alaric? Society is very small.”
“Mama carries a picture of him in her locket.”
That had the desired effect. Emily dropped her spoon and stared, appalled.
“What did you say? I don’t believe it! She couldn’t be so—so idiotic!”
“She was.”
Emily shut her eyes in relief. “But she stopped!”
“No. The locket was lost—probably stolen. A lot of small things have been stolen from around Rutland Place—a silver buttonhook, a gold chain, a snuffbox.”
“But that’s awful!” Emily’s eyes were wide and dark with anguish. “Charlotte, it’s, simply dreadful! I know the servant problem is bad, but this is preposterous. One owes it to one’s friends to see at least that they are honest. What if someone finds this locket? And knows it is Mama’s with that—Frenchman—in it! What would they say? What would Papa think?”
“Exactly,” Charlotte said. “And now Mina Spencer-Brown is dead—probably murdered—almost next door to Mama. But she still doesn’t mean to stop seeing him. I’ve tried to dissuade her, and it has been exactly as if she had not heard me.”
“Haven’t you pointed out to her—” Emily began incredulously.
“Of course I have!” Charlotte cut her off before she could finish. “But did you ever take any notice of advice when you were in love?”
Emily’s face fell. “Don’t be ridiculous! What on earth do you mean, ‘in love’? Mama is fifty-two! And she is married—”
“That’s just years,” Charlotte said sharply, waving away the unimportance of time with her soup spoon. “I don’t suppose one feels any different. And to imagine that being married prevents you from falling in love is too naïve for words. If you are going to grasp at Society with both hands, Emily, at least practice some of its realism as well as its sophistry and silly manners!”
Emily shut her eyes and pushed her soup dish away.
“Charlotte, it’s awful!” she said in a tight, pained voice. “It would be total disaster. Have you any idea what happens to a woman who is known to be—without morals? Oh, it might be all right if it were with some earl or duke or something, and one was important enough oneself—but for someone like Mama— never! Papa could even divorce her! Oh, dear heaven! It would be the end for all of us. I should never be received anywhere again!”
“Is that all you care about?” Charlotte said furiously. “Being invited out? Can’t you think about Mama? And how do you imagine Papa would feel? Not to mention whatever it is that has happened to Mina Spencer-Brown!”
Emily’s face was white, anger lost in a sudden sense of shame for her own thoughts.
“You can’t possibly think Mama had anything to do with murder,” she said, lowering her voice considerably. “That’s inconceivable.”
“Of course I don’t,” Charlotte said. “But it’s perfectly conceivable, even probable, that the murder had something to do with the thefts. And that isn’t all. Mama said she has had the feeling for some time that someone has been watching her, spying on her. That could have something to do with the murder as well.”
Two spots of color appeared in Emily’s cheeks.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” Her indignation was back again, embarrassment forgotten. “You should have sent for me straightaway. I don’t care how clever you think you are, you should not have tried it on your own. Look what a mess you have let it grow into! You have an overblown opinion of yourself, Charlotte. Just because you have stumbled on the truth in one or two of Thomas’ cases, you think you are so clever nobody can deceive you. And look what you have allowed to happen now!”
“I didn’t know it was murder until the day before I wrote to you.” Charlotte kept her temper with difficulty. She knew Emily was frightened, and she was also aware at the back of her mind that perhaps she had been a little overconfident of her own abilities. It might really have been better if she had called Emily sooner, at least about Caroline and Paul Alaric.