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“No,” she denied it, then knew it was a lie. To have an addiction is a grief, but intentionally to introduce someone else to it she regarded as a profound wrong. “I may be mistaken. It is only an idea.”
He drew in breath as if to ask again, then changed his mind.
“If it has anything to do with her death, I will tell you,” she promised, still looking down. She could not bear to intrude on the pain in his eyes. “Before I tell anyone else, except William.”
“Thank you.” Again he seemed about to continue, and changed his mind.
“The room is full of people,” she said, gesturing towards the door. “What is your cleaning woman’s name, so that she knows I have spoken to you?”
“Mrs. Talbot.”
“Thank you.” And before either of them could struggle for anything more to say, she turned and went out through the waiting room and down the corridor to the entrance, and the street, to look for an omnibus or a hansom back towards Haverstock Hill.
She alighted within a few yards of Kristian’s house, and as soon as she knocked Mrs. Talbot opened the door. She had been working on the hall floor, and the mop and bucket stood a few feet inside.
Hester bade her good morning by name and explained her errand. Rather doubtfully, Mrs. Talbot conducted her upstairs, after carefully closing the front door. She remained in the bedroom while Hester went to the chest. Feeling guilty for the intrusion into what was deeply private, Hester opened the top drawer and looked through the dozen or so papers that were there. Actually, there were two letters from Elissa, undated, but from the first line or two she could see that they were old, from when they were immeasurably close.
With fumbling hands she opened her reticule and took out the letter Charles had given her, although she already knew the answer. It was more scrawled, a little larger, but the characteristic curls and generous capitals were the same.
She placed them side by side on top of the dresser, and for a sick, dizzy moment fought off reality, searching for differences, anything that would tell her they were only similar, not the same. On the second one the tails were longer. A b had a loop; the z was different. And even as she was doing it, she knew it was not true. It was time and haste which gave an illusion of difference. It was Elissa who had drawn Imogen into gambling. Of course, she had not forced her, only invited her, but Charles might blame her as if it were a seduction. It is so easy, so instinctive, to bring the fault away from those we love.
Would he have known it was Elissa? He had no other writing to compare. But he did not need it. On his own admission, he had followed Imogen. He needed only to have kept one of the appointments in the letters, and seen whom she met. Why the Drury Lane lie? For the same reason as any lie-to conceal the truth.
“Thank you,” she said to Mrs. Talbot. Conspicuously, she folded up Kristian’s letter and replaced it, closed the drawer, then put Charles’s letter back in her reticule. “I won’t disturb you anymore.”
“You look poorly, Miss. . an’ cold, if you don’t mind me sayin’. If yer’d like a cup o’ tea, the kettle’s on the ’ob,” Mrs. Talbot offered.
Hester hesitated. Part of her was irritated and anxious to face Charles and know the best or the worst. But it would be the same whenever she went, and a hot cup of tea would warm her, perhaps undo some of the knots in her clenched stomach. She looked at the woman’s weary face and felt a rush of gratitude. “Yes, please. Let’s do that.”
Mrs. Talbot relaxed, and a surprisingly sweet smile lit her face. “D’yer mind the kitchen, Miss?”
“I’d like the kitchen,” Hester said honestly. For a start it would be a good deal warmer than the ice-cold room she was standing in now, and no doubt the one furnished morning room would be equally chilly.
It was an hour and a half later before she was shown into Charles’s office in the City, and that was only after some rather heavy-handed insistence.
Charles rose from his desk and came around to greet her. “What is it?” he demanded, his voice sharp. “My clerk said it was an emergency. Has something happened to Imogen?”
“Not so far as I know.” She took a deep breath. “But she is still gambling, even though she now goes alone.” She watched his face intently, and saw the dull flush of color and the heat in his eyes. Denial was impossible.
“If it’s not Imogen, what is it?”
She hated having to press him. It would have been so much easier if they could have spoken as allies instead of adversaries, but she could not afford to let him evade the truth any longer. “You told me that the night of Elissa’s death you followed Imogen south, down Drury Lane towards the river.”
He could not retract it. “Yes,” he said, his voice cracking a little. “You seemed to be thinking she was involved in. . in the murders. Or she might have seen something.”
“She might have.” Hester was hating this. Why did he not trust her enough to tell her the truth? Was it so hideous? “You didn’t go down Drury Lane that evening. A dray slid over and dropped all its load of raw sugar barrels, blocking everything. They took hours to clear it up.”
He stood motionless, not answering her. She had never seen him look more wretched. The fear bit so hard and deep inside her that for the first time she truly acknowledged the possibility that he was involved in Elissa’s death.
“Where was she?” she asked him. “Did you follow her that night?”
“Yes.” It was little more than a whisper.
She found herself gulping also. “Where? Where did she go, Charles?”
“Gambling.”
“Gambling where?” Now she was all but shouting. “Where?”
