“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 nothing 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 hiccupped 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 blistered her ears had she heard it.
Chapter Nine
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!”
“Are you going to be sick?” he asked with only slightly more concern.
“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 took Emily’s carriage and Emily’s footman!” she said at last, gulping to get her breath. “I’m not entirely stupid!”
He took the pot from her and offered her a glass of water and 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.”
“Everyone?” His eyebrows rose, and there was a dangerously light tone in his voice.
Mercifully she realized her omission before he was obliged to tell her.
“I mean Mama and Emily,” she corrected. It occurred to her to say she had sent the footman with a message for him, but she had never been able to lie to him successfully, and her head was too thick to be able to sort out enough wit to be consistent now. And consistency was vital to a good lie. “I didn’t tell you because I thought I should be home before you were.” She began to sound indignant. “I didn’t know it was going to be a music hall! He simply said he would show me what had happened to Ottilie and prove they had not harmed her!”
“A music hall?” For a moment he forgot to be angry.
She sat upright on the edge of the bed. At least the nausea had gone, and it was easier to achieve a little dignity.
“Well, where did you imagine I had been? I was not in a public house, if that’s what you think!”
“And why was it necessary to look for Ottilie Charrington in a music hall?” he said skeptically.
“Because that’s where she was,” she answered with some satisfaction. “She ran away to go on the halls! She’s Ada Church.” A sudden memory came back to her. “You know, the one with the nice legs!” she added spitefully.
Pitt had the grace to color. “I saw her professionally,” he said tartly.
“Your profession or hers?” Charlotte inquired.
“At least I came home sober!” His voice rose with offended justice.
Her head was splitting, like a boiled egg being sliced off at the top, and she did not in the least wish to quarrel with him any further.
“Thomas, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t realize it would affect me like this. It was just fizzy and nice. And I went there to find Ottilie Charrington.” She pushed her hair back and began to take out the most painful of the pins. “After all, someone killed Mina! If it wasn’t the Charringtons, then maybe it was Theodora von Schenck.”
He sat down on the end of the bed, his shirttails hanging out, his tie undone.
“Is Ada Church really Ottilie Charrington?” he asked seriously. “Charlotte, are you absolutely sure? It wasn’t some obscure joke?”
“No, I’m sure. For one thing, she looked a lot like Inigo. You could see they were related. And something else I forgot! Ambrosine is the thief! Apparently she’s been doing it for some time. Inigo always puts everything back as soon as he can, when he knows who they belong to. I suppose nobody admitted to finding them this time in case you suspected them of having murdered Mina for the things.”