“Yes,” Charlotte replied, having some inkling at last of what was disturbing her mother so much. “I am afraid he was. He was poisoned with opium in his flask, as Judge Livesey feared. I’m sorry you should have been involved in it, Mama, even so indirectly. But any number of perfectly respectable people were at the theater. There is no need to fear anyone will think ill of you.”
“Oh, I’m not!” Caroline said with genuine surprise. “I was …” She looked down, a very faint blush in her cheeks. “I was concerned in case it should be either Mr. Fielding or Miss Macaulay who would be suspected. Do you—do you think Thomas believes they may be guilty?”
Charlotte was at a loss to answer. Of course it was not only possible but probable that Pitt would suspect both of them, and without question he would suspect Joshua Fielding, which was what she realized Caroline really had in mind. She remembered Fielding’s wry, charming face and wondered what emotions lay behind it, and just how skilled an actor he might be. What might his words conceal about Aaron Godman, or the reason Mr. Justice Stafford had come to see him the day of his death?
Caroline was staring at her, her eyes intent, darkening with anxiety.
With a painful searching of memory Charlotte remembered how she had woven so many dreams in her youth, and made a mantle of them with which she had clothed her brother-in-law, Dominic Corde. It was so easy to imagine that a handsome face was filled with passion, sensitivity, dreams to match your own, and then invest the person with abilities he never possessed, or wished to—and in so doing to be blind to the real person.
Was Caroline doing the same to a stage actor she had watched wear other men’s thoughts with such artistry that she had lost the distinction between the world of the mind and the world of reality?
“Yes. I’m afraid he will have to,” she said aloud. “It can only be someone he saw that day who had the opportunity to put poison in the flask, and if he was indeed investigating the old murder, then that is an excellent reason why someone might wish him dead. How could Thomas ignore that?”
“I cannot believe that he did it!” Caroline said very quietly, a fierceness in her voice, an intense determination. “There is some other answer.” She looked up quickly, all the indecision and awkwardness vanished from her. “What can we do to help? What could we find out? Whom do we know?”
Charlotte was startled. Did Caroline realize she had spoken as if she herself intended to become involved? Was it a slip of the tongue?
“We?” Charlotte could not help smiling.
Caroline bit her lip. “Well—you, I suppose. I have no idea how to—detect …”
Charlotte could not decide whether her mother was trying to excuse herself from taking any part or was seeking to be reassured that she could, in fact, be of use. She looked both vulnerable and determined. There was a vitality to her, a most odd mixture of fear and exhilaration.
“Do you know anyone?” Caroline persisted.
“No,” Charlotte said quickly. “I never knew anyone; it is Emily who knows people. But we could attempt to make someone’s acquaintance, I suppose.”
“We must do something,” Caroline said vehemently. “If the wrong person was hanged once—then left to themselves the police may do the wrong thing again. Oh! I’m so sorry! I did not mean to imply Thomas. Of course it will be different with Thomas in charge. But all the same …”
Charlotte smiled broadly and picked up her rapidly cooling cup of tea.
“That is all right, Mama. You had better not say anything further—you are only digging yourself deeper. Thomas is not infallible—he would be the first to say so.” She sipped her tea. “And I would be the first to defend him to the death if anyone else said so. But I really know very little about this case, except what you know yourself. Apparently it was perfectly horrifying. Do you recall it? It was five years ago.”
“Certainly not. Your father was alive, and I never read the newspapers.”
“Oh. Well, I assume you did not know the Blaines, or anyone connected with them—and I am perfectly sure that when Papa was alive you did not know anyone on the stage.”
Caroline blushed deeply and sipped her tea.
“I don’t suppose Great-Aunt Vespasia did either,” Charlotte said, trying to smother the laughter out of her expression. “At least not lately. Actors, I mean.”
Caroline’s eyebrows shot up, missing the humor entirely. “Do you think Lady Cumming-Gould would have known actors? Oh, I think that most unlikely. She is very well bred indeed.”
“I know,” Charlotte conceded, straight-faced with difficulty. “Well, enough not to need to care what other people thought. She would have known anyone she wished—discreetly, perhaps. But that doesn’t help us. She is over eighty now. The actors she may have known are no use to us. They are probably dead. But she may just possibly have known someone who knew Kingsley Blaine—or knew of him. Perhaps I should ask her?”
“Oh, would you?” Caroline said eagerly. “Would you please?”
The prospect was very appealing. Charlotte had not seen Great-Aunt Vespasia for some time. She was not Charlotte’s aunt at all, but Emily’s by marriage to her first husband, but both Charlotte and Emily cared for her more than anyone else except most immediate family, and quite often more even than those.
“Yes,” Charlotte said with decision. “I think that would be an excellent idea. I’ll make arrangements to go tomorrow.”
“Oh—do you think it can wait?” Caroline looked crestfallen. “Had you better not go today? It will surely not be easy. Had we not best begin as soon as possible?”
Charlotte looked down at her stuff dress, then at the oven.
“Gracie can take the cakes out,” Caroline said quickly, at last showing awareness of the increasingly delicious aroma. “And she will be here when the children return from school, should you be held up. Or I will wait, if that would set your mind at rest. You can take my carriage, which is outside. That would be excellent. Now go upstairs and change into a suitable gown. Go on!”
Charlotte did not need a second tempting. If Caroline wished it so much, and was willing to remain here, then it would be churlish not to accede to her wishes.
“Certainly,” she agreed, and without hesitation left the kitchen and went upstairs to find a suitable gown and inform Gracie of the change of plans.
“Oh,” Gracie said with excitement lighting her face. “You are going to work on the case. Oh ma’am—I was ’opin’ as you would!” She brushed her hands on the sides of her apron. “If’n there’s anything I can do …?”
“I shall surely tell you,” Charlotte promised. “Regardless, I shall tell you all I discover, if I discover anything at all. For now I am going to call upon Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, to see if I can enlist her help.” She knew Gracie admired Great-Aunt Vespasia intensely. Vespasia had been one of the leading beauties of her day, and had all the unconscious dignity and charm of total confidence, a biting wit, and an utter disregard for convention. Gracie had met her when she had called upon Charlotte and sat in the kitchen, fascinated by the impedimenta of washday, which she had never seen before. To Gracie she was a creature of magical dimensions.
“Oh ma’am, that’s a wunnerful idea.” Gracie applauded, her face shining. “I’m sure she’ll ’elp, if anyone can.”
It was an hour later that Charlotte arrived in Gadstone Park and was admitted by Vespasia’s parlormaid, a girl Pitt had found in a workhouse in a previous case, and recommended to Vespasia. Then the girl had looked like a shadow; now the color had returned to her skin and her hair was a shining coil on her head. She had learned Vespasia’s preferences well enough to know that Charlotte was to be admitted at any time. She did not call on trivial social issues, only if there was some urgent adventure afoot, or some extremely interesting story to relate.