Cardington Crescent (20 page)

The room was warm and full of light, and the chair was very comfortable. She closed her eyes and leaned back, her face to the sun. It was totally silent up here; the rest of the house need not have existed. She could be anywhere, their quarreling and spite, the whispers, the fear and the malice a hundred miles away in another city. There were the smells of dust and old toys, the cotton of dolls’ dresses, the wood of the horse, the sharp, bitter smell of lead and tin boxes and toy soldiers. It was all vaguely pleasing, perhaps because it was different, half a memory from a simpler, infinitely safer time of her own life.

She was half asleep when the voice broke in, quite quietly but so startling that she felt as if she had been struck.

“Couldn’t you bear us anymore? I don’t blame you. No one knows what to say, but they go on saying it anyway. And the old woman is like something out of a Greek play. I came up here to find you because I was afraid you weren’t well.”

Her eyes flew open and she stared up, squinting in the sun. Jack Radley was standing gracefully, leaning a little against the doorway. He had changed out of his funereal black and was in a pleasant brown. She could think of nothing at all to answer him. The words froze in her brain.

He moved forward and sat on a nursery stool at her feet. The sun made a halo out of the edge of his hair and cast the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek. It all reminded her of the conservatory, and her conscience wrenched at her again. George had been alive then... .

She found an answer at last. “I’m not in the mood for conversation. I don’t feel like forcing myself to be polite anymore, with everyone trying—very clumsily—not to mention murder, while at the same time making it perfectly clear they think it was me.”

“Then I shall avoid the subject,” he replied without a qualm, looking at her with exactly the same warm candor she had seen in him that night he had kissed her so intimately. It brought back very precisely the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, and the thick, soft, texture of his hair under her fingers. Her guilt was overwhelming.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped with unreasonable fury. Normally she could have exchanged harmless banter indefinitely, but the knack had abandoned her. She did not want to talk to Jack Radley at all, about anything. She could not get out of her mind the thoughts she feared he might have with regard to her, the idea that she could have been so attracted to him that when George was dead she would be prepared to think of marrying anyone else—let alone a man who might have murdered him!

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know it’s impossible not to think. I suppose you can’t even put it out of thought for half an hour.”

She looked at him reluctantly. He was smiling and looked so agreeable and innocent here amid these childish things she felt bizarre thinking of murder. And yet the knowledge would not be banished. It was true! Someone had murdered George. She had not done it; she found it hard to think it was Sybilla—she had nothing to gain and so much to lose—and impossible to think it was William. She would love to think it was old Mrs. March, but she could rake up no possible reason. And of course there was the abominable picture of Tassie creeping up the stairs in the night, tired and smelling of blood. Could she have killed George in a fit of madness? But even madness has some reason!

Or even at a very wild extreme, Eustace, to hide Tassie’s affliction? Perhaps she had done something else dreadful before. Could it be to conceal that? But that did not make sense. If Eustace knew Tassie was mad he would hardly seek to marry her to anyone; he would have her locked away, for all their sakes.

Surely it had to be Jack Radley, sitting here two feet away from her, the sun shining on his hair, his shirt dazzling white. She could smell the clean cotton just as she could smell the dust and the sun’s heat on the chair and the tin soldiers.

She avoided his eyes, afraid he would see the fear in her own. If he did see her thoughts and understand them, how would he feel? Hurt, because he cared what she thought of him? Because it was unjust, and he had hoped for better? Angry, because she misjudged him? Or because his plans were failing? How angry? Angry enough to strike out at her?

Or worse, far worse, fearful that she would betray him, become a danger to his safety?

Now she dared not look up. What if he saw all that in her eyes? If he had killed George, then he would now have to kill her too. But he would be caught!

Not if he made it look like suicide. The Marches would be only too glad to accept it and dismiss the whole matter and send the police away, and Thomas would have to go, to accept the obvious. The family would not question it or make an issue—far from it! They would be grateful.

Charlotte would never believe it, of course. But who would take any notice of her? There would be nothing she could do. And even if she could, it would hardly help Emily.

She was sitting in the nursery in the silence and the sun. It was so bright it dazzled her. She felt a little dizzy and the chair was suddenly very hard under her. It seemed to be tilting. This was ridiculous, she must not faint! She was alone here with him, out of hearing of everyone. If he killed her here it could be days before anyone found her—weeks! Not till a maid came again to do a little perfunctory dusting. They would think she had run away—admitting her guilt.

“Emily, are you all right?” His voice sounded anxious. She felt his hand warm on her arm, very strong, tight.

She wanted to pull away violently. A sweat of terror broke out on her skin, wetting the black cloth of her dress and trickling cold down her back. If she tore away from him he would know she was afraid, and he would know why. She would not be able to get up and run away before he could catch her. It was possible she would reach the door behind him, and race along the passage to the steep stairs. It would be so easy to push her, a headlong fall. She could already see her own crumpled body at the foot, hear his voice with the explanation. So simple, so sorry. Another tragic accident—she was beside herself with grief and guilt.

There was only one way: pretend innocence, convince him she had no suspicions, no ideas, no fear of him.

She swallowed hard and gritted her teeth. She forced herself to look up at him, meet his eyes without flinching, speak without biting her tongue or fumbling.

“Yes—yes, thank you. I just felt dizzy for a moment. It’s warmer in here than I expected.”

“I’ll open the window.” He stood up as he said it, reaching for the catch, and lifted the heavy sash. That was it! A fall out of the window! They were three stories up; she would hit the hard walk outside once and that would be the end. Who would hear her if she screamed? No one, up here. That was precisely why it was the nursery, so the cries of the children should not disturb anyone. But if she stayed seated he would find her hard to pick up, a deadweight. It was a little, a very little, but there was nothing she could do but take it a step at a time, searching for the next one.

“Yes. Yes, perhaps that would help,” she agreed.

He turned round, facing her, silhouetted against the sun and the blue dazzle of the leaves and the sky through the window. He walked over and leaned forward a little, taking her hand. He was warm, and she felt with a shudder how strong. She could not possibly get out of the chair now. He was standing almost above her, imprisoning her.

“Emily?” He looked at her face—in fact, he was staring. “Emily, are you afraid of them?”

She was so frightened her body ached and the sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.

“Afraid?” She feigned innocence, trying to look as though she were not sure what he meant.

“Don’t pretend with me.” He was still holding her hand. “Eustace and that fearful old woman are hell-bent on having you blamed for murder. But that’s only so they can get the matter hushed up and the police out of the house. Surely Pitt knows that. Isn’t he your brother-in-law? And I have the opinion that your sister will not let any accusations against you go by without doing her best to tear them to bits, let the pieces fall where they may.”

Did he have any idea what she was thinking? Could he smell her fear? Surely he would know it was immediate and physical, nothing so remote as the Marches’ suspicions. It was an obvious, compelling step from that to the knowledge that she thought he had killed George, and why.

“I find it very uncomfortable,” she said with a dry little swallow, her face hot. “Of course, it isn’t pleasant to have people, even someone like Mrs. March, imagine such a thing of you. But I know it’s because she’s afraid for her own.”

“Her own?” He sounded surprised, but she did not look at him.

“I think it would be better if I did not discuss it,” she said quietly. “But there are certain things ... in the family—”

“Who? Tassie?” There was disbelief in his voice now.

“Really, Mr. Radley, I would very much rather not talk about it. I don’t suppose it was anything to do with her, but Mrs. March may be very anxious.” She made her move at last, praying he would step back and allow her to stand. She was weak with relief when he did.

“But you think it was Tassie?” he pressed on, but she refused to look at him. Carefully, breath tight in her throat, she moved past him towards the door.

“No—probably because I don’t want to. I don’t want to think it of anyone, but I cannot avoid it.” She was in the night nursery now, and he was close behind her. “There was as good a reason for William to have done it as for me.” It was a miserable thing to say, but all she could think of was escaping, reaching the stairs and getting down them to the main landing where there would be people.

“Of course,” He was still beside her, very close, ready to catch her if she felt faint again. “If he cared. I never saw any sign that he did. And George was certainly not the first man to be besotted with Sybilla, you know.”

“I can imagine, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t mind!” She was walking rapidly now, too rapidly. The thought of safety only yards away was too sweet; relief welled up inside her, tightening her throat. She must just get down the stairs ahead of him, where he could not push or trip her. She wanted to run, to make sure of it now.

Then with almost unbearable horror she felt his hand close over her elbow. She wanted to wrench away, call out, scream. But there might be no one else, even beyond that flight of steps. Then she would have betrayed her fear and be left alone with him. She froze.

“Emily,” he said urgently. “Be careful!”

Was it a threat? At last she looked at him, almost involuntarily. But she had to know.

“Be careful of William,” he said earnestly. “If it was William, and he realizes you know, he might hurt you—even if only by trying to incriminate you somehow.”

“I will. In fact I shall try not to discuss it, if I can.”

He laughed without pleasure. “I mean it, Emily.”

“Thank you.” She gulped and all but choked. They were at the top of the stairs. She could not stay here; he would know she expected him to push her—and that knowledge would be enough to bring it about. He could not dare let her live, and he would never have a better chance than this. A simple slip of the foot and she would pitch down, breaking her back, or her neck. Her feet were already on the second step. She forced herself, shaking, knees weak—the third, the fourth. He was behind her; it was too narrow to come beside. The seventh step, the eighth—she tried not to hurry. With every second she was nearer. At last she was at the bottom—safe! For now.

She took an enormous breath, scuffed her shoes with the clumsiness of relief, and hurried across the landing towards the main stairs.

P
ITT ATTENDED THE
funeral, but at such a discreet distance that he was sure none of the family saw him. Afterwards he followed them back to Cardington Crescent and this time entered through the kitchen, taking Stripe with him. They had gone over and over the meager evidence, pursued the few threads of conversations overheard, impressions formed, hoping to surprise an unguarded revelation, but nothing had stayed in his mind sharper than the rest, nothing led him more clearly through the maze.

He left Stripe to question the servants one more time, on the chance that in repetition a fragment would be remembered, that some flash of new recollection would rise to the surface of the mind.

He wanted to see Charlotte. No absorption in this case, the Bloomsbury one, or any other, could drown out the loneliness in the evenings when he returned home, often close to midnight, and found only the night-light burning in the hall, the kitchen empty and tidy, everything put away but for the supper Gracie had carefully prepared and left on the table for him.

Every night he ate silently by the remains of the fire in the stove; then he took his boots off and tiptoed up the stairs, looking in first at the small, motionless forms of Jemima and Daniel in the nursery before going on to his own bed. He was tired enough to sleep within a few minutes, but he woke in the morning aware of an incompleteness, and sometimes he was actually physically cold.

In the mornings Gracie reported to him the events of the previous day that she considered important, but it was a shy, bare account—nothing like Charlotte’s, full of opinion, detail, and drama. He used to think her incessant talking through breakfast an intrusion, one of the penalties men invariably pay for marriage. But without it he found himself unable to concentrate on the newspaper and taking little pleasure in it.

Now he inquired of the footman where she was, and was shown into the overcrowded boudoir, close as a hothouse, and requested to wait. It was less than five minutes before Charlotte came in and, pushing the door closed sharply behind her, threw her arms round him and clung to him fiercely. She made no sound, but he could feel that she was weeping, a tired, slow letting go of tears.

Presently he kissed her—her hair, her brow, her cheek—then he passed her his only decent handkerchief, waiting while she blew her nose savagely, twice.

“How are the children?” she asked, swallowing and looking up at him. “Has Daniel cut that tooth yet? I thought he was getting a bit feverish—”