Emily reached for her soup dish again.
“This is cold. I don’t know why you can’t have a craving for something reasonable, like pickles. When I was carrying, I wanted strawberry jam. I had it with everything. Will you add some more hot from the pan to this, please?”
Charlotte stood up and ladled out some for both of them. She put Emily’s in front of her, then sat down to her own.
“What shall we do?” she asked quietly.
Emily looked back at her, all the anger evaporated. She was aware of her own selfishness, but it was unnecessary for either of them that she should say so.
“Well, we had better go immediately, this afternoon, and persuade Mama of the danger she is in, and stop her from seeing Monsieur Alaric again—except in the most casual way, as it is unavoidable, of course. We do not want to be obvious. It would occasion talk. Then in case it has anything to do with the thefts, and somebody has this wretched locket, we had better see if we can find out who killed the woman—Spencer-Brown. I have enough money. I can buy the locket back if it is blackmail.”
Charlotte was surprised. “Would you do that?”
Emily’s blue eyes widened. “Of course I would! We should buy back the locket first, then call in the police. It wouldn’t matter what they said afterwards—without the locket, nobody would believe them. They would only damn themselves the further for malice. We would destroy the picture, and Mama would deny it. Monsieur Alaric would hardly contradict! Even if he is foreign, he is most certainly a gentleman.” A shadow passed over Emily’s face. “Unless, of course, it was he who killed Mrs. Spencer-Brown.”
That Paul Alaric could be the murderer was an idea peculiarly repugnant to Charlotte. She had never really thought of him in that light, even in Paragon Walk, and it was sharp and ugly to do so now.
“Oh, I don’t think it could be he!” she said involuntarily.
Emily’s stare was very straight. “Why not?”
Then perception flashed across her face. She knew her sister too well for comfort; indeed she had always had a disconcertingly acute judgment of most people, both about what they wanted and, even more uncomfortably, why they wanted it. It was a facility, coupled with a sharp realism in her desires and the restraint to keep a still tongue in her head, that had led to her considerable success in Society. Charlotte had far more imagination, but it lacked a bridle. She failed to take account of social conventions, and therefore many of the motives of others eluded her. It was only when the darker, more elemental and tragic passions were involved that she understood instinctively, and often with a sharp and painful wave of pity.
“Why not?” Emily repeated, finishing her soup. “Do you think that because he is handsome he is therefore decent? Don’t be such a child! You ought to know better than to imagine that simply because someone is attractive he is not capable of the most facile and disgusting things as well. Handsome people are often extremely selfish. To be able to charm others is very dangerous to the character. It comes as a shock, sometimes an unacceptable one, to find there is something you want and you may not have it. He would not be the first simply to take it! If he has been brought up to believe he has only to smile and people will do as he wishes—For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, remember Selena! She was totally spoiled by having been told she was a beauty!”
“You don’t need to belabor the point,” Charlotte interrupted her angrily. “I understand you perfectly. I have met spoiled people too! And I have not forgotten how everyone twittered over Monsieur Alaric. He had only to show up and half the women in the Walk made fools of themselves!”
Emily gave her a dry look, her own memories less than entirely comfortable.
“Then you had better put on your best dress, and we shall go and call on Mama right away,” she said briskly. “Before she goes out, or receives anyone else. We can hardly say what we have to unless we are alone.”
Caroline received them with surprise and delight.
“My dears, how marvelous! Do come in and sit down. How wonderful to see you both!” She was dressed in the softest lavender-pink dress, high to the throat, with a fichu of lace falling gently. At any other time Charlotte would have envied her it; a gown like that would have suited her wonderfully and, far more important than the mere look of it, would have made her feel beautiful. Now all she could think of was how flushed Caroline was, how gaiety and even excitement bubbled just beneath the surface.
She glanced across at Emily and saw the chill of shock in her eyes.
“Emily, do sit over here where I can see you,” Caroline said cheerfully. “You haven’t been here for ages—at least it seems like ages. It is far too early for tea, and I suppose you have had luncheon already?”
“Onion soup,” Emily said with a little wrinkle of her nose.
Caroline’s face fell. “Oh, my dear! Whatever for?”
Emily reached for her bag, opened it, and took out her perfume. She touched herself liberally with it and then offered it to Charlotte.
“Mama, Charlotte tells me you have had some tragic happenings here lately,” she began, ignoring the question of the soup. “I’m so sorry. I wish you had written me. I would like to have been here to offer some comfort to you.”
Considering how radiant Caroline looked, the remark seemed somewhat misplaced. Charlotte had never seen anyone less distressed.
Caroline recollected herself rapidly. “Oh yes, Mina Spencer-Brown. Very sad indeed—in fact, quite tragic. I cannot think what drove her to it. I wish I had been able to help. I feel awfully guilty, but I had no idea at all there was anything wrong.”
Charlotte was conscious of the minutes ticking away, mindful that early callers might come at any time after three.
“She didn’t kill herself,” she said brutally. “She was murdered.”
There was total silence. The light died from Caroline’s face, and her body hunched into itself; suddenly she looked thinner.
“Murdered?” She repeated the word. “How could you know? Are you trying to frighten me, Charlotte?”
It was precisely what she was trying to do, but to admit it would rob at least half its effect.
“Thomas told me, of course,” she answered. “She died of belladonna poisoning, but the dose was far more than there had been in the house. It must have come from somewhere outside. No one else would give her poison for her to kill herself, so it can only have been murder, can’t it?”
“I don’t understand.” Caroline shook her head. “Why should anyone kill Mina? She did no harm to anyone. She didn’t have any money to leave, nor was she in line to inherit anything, so far as I know.” There was confusion in her face. “It doesn’t make any sense. Alston is the last sort of man to—to be having an affaire with another woman and wish to—No, it’s ridiculous!” Her voice regained its conviction and she looked up. “Thomas must have made a mistake—there is another explanation. We simply have not found it yet.” She sat a little straighter in her chair. “She must have brought it from somewhere. I’m sure if he looks—”
“Thomas is an excellent policeman and he does not make mistakes,” Emily said, to Charlotte’s amazement. It was a very sweeping statement, and less than true, but Emily continued regardless: “He will have thought of all those things. If he says it is murder, then it is! We had best face it, and conduct ourselves accordingly.” She opened her eyes wide and stared at Caroline, then shifted them a little, unable to look at her and deal the final blow. “And of course that means police all over the place, investigating everything and everyone! There won’t be any secrets left in the entire neighborhood.”
Caroline did not immediately understand. She saw the unpleasantness of it; indeed she could hardly have forgotten Cater Street, and she saw the dangers to those closely involved with Mina, but not her own peril.