Callander Square by Anne Perry Page A

his own house, beyond a woman for the heavy stuff—” he stopped, not sure if Freddie was following him.
    “Damage?” Freddie looked puzzled. “You mean if they said something stupid to this fellow, lied, and so forth?”
    “That,” Reggie agreed, “or—oh come on, Freddie! Most of us have pinched a few bottoms now and then, kissed a good-looking maid, spot of fun, what?”
    Recollection flashed in Freddie’s face.
    “Oh, of course. You’re worried about Dolly? That was her name, wasn’t it?”
    Reggie felt acutely uncomfortable. He had hoped Freddie might have forgotten that. Dolly was dead and the whole thing was in the past now. Of course it had been very sad. The poor girl should never have gone to a back-street abortionist. He would have provided for her, found her some place in the country where no one would have known her; a long way from Callander Square, naturally. There was no call for her to have panicked in that way. It could hardly be said to be his fault! Still, he could have wished Freddie had forgotten it. He had had to call Freddie at the time. The girl had died in Reggie’s house, and there was no time to call a regular doctor; Freddie had been nearest. Freddie had been alone with her for a while before she died. He had no idea what she might have babbled to him then. Please heaven he had not believed any of it.
    “Yes,” he said, recalling himself. Freddie was still waiting for his reply. “Yes, Dolly. But that couldn’t have anything to do with this. It was over years ago, poor girl. She’s been dead four years by now. But you know servants, they romanticize. If that fellow gets to question them some silly girl could be indiscreet. Might say I had a fancy for her. Police could read more into it than there was.”
    “Oh quite,” Freddie agreed. “Can’t expect chaps like that to understand.”
    “Wouldn’t do any of us any good,” Reggie went on. “Scandal, and so on. Give the square a bad name: we’d all suffer. Rubs off. Mud sticks, you know?”
    “Oh quite,” Freddie’s face clouded as he realized precisely what Reggie meant, and the disadvantages to all of them. “Yes.”
    Reggie wondered whether Freddie had thought of the harm to his burgeoning professional career, which depended so much on a reputation for uprightness and discretion. Would it be necessary to put it in words for him? He prodded delicately.
    “Trouble is, everybody that matters knows everybody else. Damn women, spend all afternoon talking—”
    “Yes,” Freddie’s pleasant face screwed up. “Yes. Better to prevent it happening in the first place. Little care, save a lot of talk and they’ll be without a position. Perhaps it would be a good idea to prime the butler, and see that he is with any female servant questioned by this Pitt fellow in the future.”
    Relief flooded through Reggie.
    “What a damned good idea, Freddie old chap. That’s the answer. I’ll have a word with Dobson, see that none of the women is—” he smiled a little, “harassed, what? Thanks Freddie, you’re a decent fellow.”
    “Not at all,” Freddie smiled up at him from the back of his chair. “Have some more port?”
    Reggie settled down and filled his glass.
    The following evening he thought it would be a good idea to further consolidate the position by having a discreet word with Garson Campbell as well. After all, Campbell was a man of the world, man of affairs, knew how to conduct things. It was a bitter night, sleeting hard, and several times he looked out of the window at the turbulent darkness, the wet, thrashing leaves, and pavement glistening in the gaslight, then back at the fire and thought that tomorrow would do well enough. Then he remembered that tomorrow that wretched policeman might come sneaking round the servants’ halls again, and goodness knows what could be said, and too late to do anything about it by then.
    With a last reluctant look at the comfort of his chair, he drank two fingers of brandy,