Rutland Place (25 page)

“He would hardly be so foolish,” Charlotte replied, trying to weight her voice with conviction. “After all, if anything were to happen to me when you all know I am in his company, then he would damn himself completely. I believe he really is going to tell me how Ottilie died and show me some proof of it. I certainly will not believe it without proof!”

“Then I shall come with you,” Emily said instantly.

It was only with difficulty that Charlotte succeeded in persuading her that her presence might risk the whole venture. If the nature of Ottilie’s death had been such that the family was prepared to have it known, then Pitt would have discovered it in his own attempts. She could think of no satisfactory reason why Inigo was now willing to tell her, except that perhaps fear of the still greater danger of being suspected of murder hung over them. But if it were a matter of desperate embarrassment, even of humiliation, then the fewer people who were aware of it the easier for the family. And also since Charlotte was not of their own social circle, perhaps they would not suffer so acutely for her knowing the truth.

Emily accepted the argument with reluctance, but she was obliged to concede its validity. At least she made no protest about lending both her carriage and her footman. She would take the use of her mother’s to return to her home.

Inigo called at six o’clock precisely, dressed in an elegant coat of darkest green with a fine top hat.

It was on the tip of Charlotte’s tongue to ask him where on earth they might be going, but she bit back the words, remembering the need for discretion. Caroline had already delivered herself of her opinion of Charlotte’s behavior, and she forbore expressing it again in front of Inigo.

Inside the carriage he made sure that she was comfortable, then offered no further remark, but sat silent, a smile curving his mouth, while they drove through gaslit streets Charlotte had not seen before, seemingly toward the heart of the city.

She lost track of time. They turned endless corners till her sense of direction, which had never been good, vanished, and when at last they pulled up she could not have made even a guess where they were.

Inigo climbed out and handed her down. The lamps were brilliant in the street, and some on the front of a large building were of different colors.

“Electric,” he said cheerfully. “There are quite a few of them now.”

She stared around her. There was music coming from somewhere, and a dozen or more people on the pavement, mostly men, some of whom were in evening dress.

“Where are we?” she asked in bewilderment. “Where is this?”

“It is a music hall, my dear,” he said with a sudden, flashing smile. “One of the best. Ada Church is singing here tonight, and she’ll pack ’em in.”

“A music hall!” Charlotte was stunned. She had been expecting a cemetery, a clinic, or even a madhouse—but a music hall! It was preposterous—like a black farce.

“Come on.” He took her arm and pushed her toward the doorway. She thought of resisting; she was both frightened and intensely curious. She had heard of Ada Church—she was said to be very handsome, and had one of the best music hall acts. Even Pitt had once commented that she had beautiful legs—of all things! He had smiled as he said it, and she had recognized that he was teasing, so she had refrained from asking him how he knew!

“Good evening, Mr. Charrington, sir.” The doorman raised his hand in a little salute, although his eyes registered surprise at Charlotte. “Good to see you again, sir.”

“You’ve been here before!” Charlotte accused him. “And often!”

“Oh yes.”

She stopped, pulling against his arm. “And you have the impertinence to bring me with you! I know I am a policeman’s wife, but I do not frequent places like this! I’ll have you remember that there are a great many things men may do and women may not! Now you have had your rather cheap joke. I accept that it was tasteless and cruel of me to ask what happened to your sister. You have your revenge, and my apologies. Now please take me home!”

He held on to her arm tightly, too tightly for her to break away.

“Don’t be so pompous,” he said quietly. “You aren’t any good at it. You wanted to know what happened to Ottilie. I’m going to tell you, and prove it. Now stop making a scene and come in. You’ll probably even enjoy it, if you let yourself. And if you don’t want to be seen here, then don’t stand in the entranceway where everybody can look at you making a spectacle of yourself!”

His logic was irrefutable. She jerked her head in the air and sailed in on his arm, looking neither right nor left, and permitted him to seat her at one of the numerous tables in the center of the floor. She was dimly aware of tiers of boxes and balconies, like a theater, of a brilliantly lit stage, of gaudy colors, flounced dresses low off the shoulders, and the black and white of rich men’s clothes mixed with the duller browns of those less comfortable, and even the checks of men come from the local streets. Waiters wove their way through the throng, glasses sparkled as they were raised and lowered, and all the time there was the murmur of voices and the lilt of music.

Inigo said nothing, but she was conscious of his bright face watching her, curiosity and laughter so close to the surface she could feel it as if he touched her.

A waiter came over and he ordered champagne, which in itself seemed to amuse him. When it came, he poured, lifted his glass, and toasted her.

“To detectives,” he said, his eyes silver in the light. “Would to God all mysteries were so simple.”

“I’m beginning to think it is the detectives who are simple!” she replied acidly, but she accepted the champagne and drank it. It was pleasantly sharp, neither sour nor sweet, and she felt less angry after it. When he poured more, she accepted that too.

Presently a juggler came onto the stage, and she watched him without particular interest. She granted that what he was doing was extremely difficult, but it seemed hardly worth the effort. He was followed by a comic who told some very odd jokes, but the audience seemed to find them hilarious. She had a suspicion she had failed to understand the point.

The waiter brought more champagne, and she became aware that she was beginning to find the colors and the music rather pleasing.

A chorus of girls appeared and performed a song she was sure she had heard before, and then a man popped up and twisted himself into the oddest contortions.

At last there was silence and then a roll of drums. The announcer held up his hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your exclusive entertainment and enchantment, the culmination of your entire evening, the quintessence of beauty, of daring, of sheer dazzling delight—Miss Ada Church!”

There was a thunder of applause, even whistles and shouts, and the curtain went up. There was only one woman on the stage, slender with a tiny waist and long, long legs encased in black trousers. A tailcoat and white shirt hid nothing of her figure, and a top hat was perched at a rakish angle on a pile of flaming red hair. She was smiling, and the joy seemed to radiate out of her to fill the whole hall.

“Bravo, Ada!” someone shouted, and there was more clapping. As the orchestra started to play, her rich, throaty voice rang out in a gay, surging, bawdy song. It was less than vulgar, but there was an intimacy to it, full of suggested secrets.

The audience roared its approval and sang the chorus along with her. By the third song, Charlotte found to her horror that she was joining in as well, music swelling up inside her with a pleasant, tingling happiness. Rutland Place seemed a thousand miles away, and she wanted to forget its darkness and its miseries. All that was good was here in the lights and the warmth, singing along with Ada Church, and the vitality that conquered everything.

It would have shocked Caroline rigid, but now Charlotte was singing as loudly as the rest in the rollicking chorus: “Champagne Charlie is my name!”

When at last the curtain came down for the final time, she stopped clapping and turned to find Inigo staring at her. She ought to have felt embarrassed, but somehow she was so exhilarated it did not seem to matter.

He held up the last bottle of champagne, but it was empty. He signaled for the waiter to bring another. Inigo had barely opened it when Charlotte saw Ada Church herself walking toward them, giving a little wave of her arm, but gracefully avoiding the hands stretched out at her. She stopped at their table, and Inigo stood up immediately and offered her his chair.

She kissed him on the cheek, and he slipped an arm around her.

“Hello, darling,” she said casually, then turned a dazzling smile on Charlotte.

Inigo bowed very slightly. “Mrs. Pitt, may I present my sister Ottilie? Tillie, this is Charlotte Pitt, the daughter of one of my neighbors, who has rather let her family down by marrying into the police! She fancied we had done away with you, so I brought her here to see that you are in excellent health.”

For once, Charlotte was staggered beyond words.

“Done away with me?” Ottilie said incredulously. “How absolutely marvelous! You know, I do believe the thought occurred to Papa, only he didn’t have the nerve!” She began to laugh; it rose bubbling in her throat and rang out in rich delight. “How superb!” She clung onto Inigo’s arm. “Do you mean the police are actually questioning Papa as to what he did with me, because they suspect him of murder? I do wish I could see his face as he tries to explain himself out of that! He’d almost rather die than tell anyone what I really am!”

Inigo kept his arm around her, but suddenly his humor vanished.

“It’s a good deal more than that, Tillie. There has been a murder, a real one. Mina Spencer-Brown was poisoned. She was a Peeping Tom, and it rather looks as if she saw something worth killing to keep secret. Not unnaturally, it occurred to the police that your disappearance might be that something.”

Ottilie’s laughter vanished instantly, and her hands tightened over his arm, long, slender hands with knuckles white where they gripped the stuff of his sleeve.

“Oh God! You don’t think—”

“No,” he said quickly, “it’s not that. Papa has no idea—and I really don’t think Mama cares. In fact, it has occurred to me, looking at her face across the table, that half of her rather wants everyone to know, especially him.”

“But you put them back?” she said urgently. “You promised—”

“Of course I did, once I knew where they belonged. No one else knows.” He turned to Charlotte. “I’m afraid my mother has a regrettable habit of picking up small things that do not belong to her. I do my best to replace them as soon as possible. I’m also afraid I took rather longer than usual with your mother’s locket, because she said nothing about losing it so I didn’t know to whom it belonged. I doubt I need to explain all the reasons for that?”

“No,” Charlotte said quietly. “No, better not.” She was puzzled. She liked Ambrosine Charrington. “Why on earth should she resort to petty stealing?”

Inigo pulled over another chair, and he and Ottilie sat down. Seeing them so close together, Charlotte realized the resemblance was quite marked. There could be no doubt who “Ada Church” was.

“Escape,” Ottilie said simply, looking at Charlotte. “Perhaps you can’t understand that? But if you had lived with Papa for thirty years, you might. Sometimes you get to feel so imprisoned by other people’s ideas and habits and expectations that part of you grows to hate them, and you want to break their ideals, smash them, shock those people into really looking at you for once, reaching through the glass to touch the real flesh beyond.”

“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.