Long Spoon Lane: A Charlotte and Thomas Pitt Novel

by Anne Perry

  “Who else could it be?” Charlotte knew that retreating from the subject now would not help. It must be faced.

  Vespasia frowned. “I have seen a deeply troubled emotion in Enid, Sheridan’s sister, as if she were aware of something more tragic than Magnus’s death.”

  “Enid?” Charlotte said with puzzlement. “But how would she be able to get to Long Spoon Lane, and actually have shot Magnus? Surely it isn’t possible?”

  “I have no idea,” Vespasia admitted. “Cordelia is the one of whom I would have the least difficulty in believing would have the mind and the heart to do it, but I can think of no way in which she would have the ability, even if she were aware of Magnus’s proposed actions. And he surely would not tell her.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said gently. She made no excuses that Pitt would have to follow the truth wherever it led him, or whatever other tragedies it exposed. They both knew that too well for it to be anything but patronizing to observe it.

  “Cordelia has invited me to call upon her again, within the next day or two,” Vespasia said after a moment. “I think I shall go this afternoon, immediately after luncheon.”

  Charlotte was surprised. “Did she? Do you think perhaps she is fond of you after all?”

  Vespasia’s eyes filled with wry amusement. “No, my dear, I do not. Lady Albemarle is giving a dinner on Tuesday evening. I have been invited, although she will not expect me to accept. I imagine Cordelia has not, and wishes me to go, in order to exercise such influence as I have in favor of the bill. She will have to swallow a very large and awkward slice of pride in order to ask me. It will offer some wild entertainment to watch her.” She said it lightly, but there was no pleasure in her face. Her words were of Cordelia, but Charlotte knew her thoughts were with Sheridan. “Would you care to stay for luncheon?” she invited.

  “Yes, very much, thank you,” Charlotte accepted without hesitation.

  Vespasia dressed in the softest, very dark lilac gray. It was the sort of color that in silk resembles the edges of the evening sky. It became her extraordinarily well, of which she was naturally aware. It was not vanity. She was equally aware that there were colors that did not become her at all, such as all oranges, golds, and browns. The more difficult the task ahead, the more important it was to look one’s best.

  She arrived at the Landsboroughs’ house unannounced, but the footman invited her to enter immediately. He must have had instructions to that effect. It was now early afternoon; a little soon for the usual caller, but it was a perfectly acceptable time for a close friend to come.

  The family had just risen from their meal and were in the withdrawing room. Vespasia was not surprised to find Enid and Denoon also present. In the circumstances she had half-expected it. Sheridan Landsborough stood to greet her; the others murmured polite acknowledgments.

  “Vespasia,” he said warmly, but with a pucker of anxiety in his features. He still looked very drawn, and a glance at him was sufficient to know that he slept little. “How are you?” It was clear from his expression that he did not know Cordelia had asked her to come.

  “I am quite well, thank you,” she replied, allowing her eyes to express her concern for him. To have returned the inquiry would make her seem blind to his obvious pain.

  Denoon rose to his feet, but only as much as courtesy demanded.

  Cordelia came forward, her chin high. “How good of you to come,” she said, trying to invest her tone with warmth, and failing. She was immaculately dressed in black silk with jet beads, so discreet one had to glance a second time to see them. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and dramatically streaked with white at the temples, but her skin was like dirty paper, smudged and too thin, stretched in all the wrong places. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

  Vespasia smiled. She knew this last remark was directed at Denoon, because his look of distaste to see Vespasia again so soon appeared to be an extraordinary breach of tact, even of decency, in the circumstances.

  Denoon’s eyes widened.

  “It could be my pleasure,” Vespasia said smoothly. She inclined her head towards Enid who gave her a half-smile in return, then she sat down in the large chair Cordelia indicated, and arranged her skirts with unconscious grace. “What may I do to help?”

  “We need all the assistance we are able to raise,” Cordelia said frankly. “Lord Albemarle would be listened to with great respect.”

  Sheridan moved slightly in his seat, the faintest gesture of discomfort.

  Cordelia stiffened, but she did not look at him. Vespasia guessed that Cordelia had already asked him to speak in the House of Lords, use the extraordinary affection he had earned over the years by his honesty and his charm. If he changed his liberal views now, in the wake of his bereavement, he could carry scores with him, perhaps even most of the House.

  She also knew that Sheridan would not do it. She did not need to see his face turned half away, the slight shiver of distaste, or her anger so thinly held in check. She despised him for cowardice. He followed his beliefs, indifferent to her. Neither loss nor outrage at injustice made him turn against what he held to be true.

  Vespasia would like to have given words to her own feelings, but it would be a luxury she could pay dearly for, too dearly now. She must play the game as it was dealt her.

  “Indeed he would,” she replied, as if she had seen nothing of the emotion between them, nor Denoon’s rising temper, or Enid’s fury, which she did not begin to understand. That was the emotion that puzzled her the most. She kept her eyes on Cordelia’s. “I have been invited to dine with them on Tuesday. I appreciate that in mourning you could not possibly go.” That was a sop to Cordelia’s vanity she would not have stooped to a month ago. Cordelia would never have been invited, and they both knew it. “Would you consider it helpful if I were to accept? I am sure that Lady Albemarle would permit me to change my mind. It came some time ago, of course, and I declined. I can give any of a number of excuses quite easily. We have been friends for years. She will probably not believe any of them, but neither will she care.”

  “Won’t she?” Denoon said coldly. “You assume a great deal. I should be insulted if you declined an invitation to a dinner and then when it suited you, at the last moment, asked to be accepted instead. We cannot afford to offend her.”

  Enid blushed painfully red, her eyes reflecting mortification.

  Vespasia looked at Denoon, her brows raised very slightly. “Really? Then perhaps it is a good thing that we are not friends, you and I—or you and Lady Albemarle.”

  Enid turned her back and sneezed—at least it sounded like a sneeze.

  Denoon was furious. “I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of the situation, Lady Vespasia! This is not some society parlor game. People’s lives are at stake. More than six people were killed in the Scarborough Street explosions.”

  “Eight, actually,” she told him. “I am glad you raised the subject, Mr. Denoon. Of course there are more than that who are now homeless. I believe the latest figure is sixty-seven, which does not include the twenty-three from Myrdle Street. I have begun a fund, much of which has already been dispensed, to provide them with shelter and food until they are able to make their own arrangements. I am sure you would wish to contribute to that, both personally and through the medium of your newspaper.” She made it a statement, not a question.

  Denoon drew in his breath.

  “Of course we would,” Enid said before he could speak. “I wish I had thought of it myself. I shall send my footman with my donation tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you,” Vespasia said sincerely. She could have liked Enid, had circumstances long ago been different. She had thought Enid disapproved of her, not catching even a glimpse of Vespasia’s loneliness. She realized now how foolish that was, how self-absorbed to imagine she was alone in her sense of dreams frustrated, boundaries closing her in both physically and emotionally. Enid must have felt the same, perhaps worse. And she was still there, accustomed to the tethe
rs perhaps, but hurting no less.

  She found herself smiling at the other woman, as if for a moment there were only the two of them encompassing a hundred words.

  Denoon cut across it abruptly, resenting his exclusion, although he was barely aware from what he was denied. “What do you propose to say to Lord Albemarle, should you have the opportunity to speak to him?” he asked. “I hope you are not going to ask him for money?”

  Sheridan stood up. “Edward, you are being crass. What you say or do in your own house is your own affair, but in my house you will be civil to my guests, whether they are friends of yours or not.” He sounded tired, hurt, and weary with an unutterable contempt.

  Denoon turned on him, his face purple. “This is too important for aristocratic delicacy, Sheridan. We cannot afford to indulge whims and vanities, or the desire to be seen to do good. Donations are all very fine, and make us all feel better and be publicly admired. But they do not address the problem. They do not stop a single bomb going off or catch one anarchist. We need support in Parliament. We need stronger laws, and men of courage and decision in the places of power where they can do good.”

  He glanced at Vespasia as casually as if she had been a servant with a tray in her hands. “I have no desire to offend Lady Vespasia, but this is a serious business. There is no room for amateurs and dabblers. It matters too much. We need Albemarle. For that matter, we need you! For God’s sake, put your oversensitivities aside and join the battle!” Perhaps without realizing it, he moved a step closer to Cordelia, allying himself with her sentiment, unspoken since Vespasia had arrived, but obvious in Cordelia’s face from the beginning.

  Sheridan looked back at Denoon, ignoring all three women.

  “You are a fool, Edward,” he said sadly. “And a stupid man with as much power as you have is dangerous enough to frighten anyone of wisdom. You seem to have no idea how political negotiations work. A word from Vespasia, and the doors of London will be open to you, or closed. A thoughtless insult, a callous gesture, and all the money you possess will avail you nothing. You need to be liked, Edward, and that is something you cannot force and you cannot buy.”

  Denoon’s face was scarlet, but he could find no words to defend himself. As much as anything, he looked startled into silence by the fact that Sheridan had at last retaliated. It was obviously something he had not expected.

  Cordelia was thoroughly out of composure. Anger darkened her face, but her first concern was for the cause.

  “I apologize for my brother-in-law,” she said to Vespasia. “It is ignorance that prompted him to be so rude. He cares too much about the danger of even worse violence to guard his tongue, which does not excuse him, of course.”

  Vespasia considered waiting in silence for Denoon to apologize. It would have had the desired effect. Sheridan would have done so, and forced it to happen. He would have understood, but he might not have admired her for it, justified as it was. More important than even the old affection, she would not have admired herself. It would be vanity, justice for herself. She was more concerned with her own cause, the defeat of the bill—and perhaps also having the kind of inner dignity that was above the need for collecting any debt.

  “The need to be successful in this is far greater than our individual feelings,” she said mildly. “We must overcome our differences of manner and do only that which furthers our aim. I believe that a quiet word with Lord Albemarle will bear fruit. His influence is much wider than is generally known. I will be happy to speak with him if you wish, or not, as your judgment dictates.”

  Enid looked at her with a puzzled expression.

  “Thank you,” Cordelia said with open gratitude.

  Sheridan relaxed.

  They waited for Denoon to speak.

  “Of course,” he agreed grudgingly. “As long as that is not all we do. The bill is down for a second reading this afternoon. The anarchists are still free, and growing more violent with every day. The police have not the power to stop them because we have not given it to them. Before Lord Albemarle can exert whatever influence he has, they may strike again. How many more people will be blasted to oblivion? How many more streets set on fire? The next time the brigades may not be able to extinguish it before it spreads and runs out of control. Have you considered that? Special Branch is useless. What have they achieved? A couple of minor men in prison, and one young man murdered! God knows why, or by whom.”

  Vespasia had not intended to, but she glanced at Sheridan, then wished she had not. In spite of all her wish to drive it out, the thought returned to her again. Could he have killed Magnus, rather than see him descend any further? Or even in order to preempt the hangman?

  She could understand how one quiet shot to the back of the head would be immeasurably more merciful. Had he done that? Whatever Magnus’s sins, Sheridan had loved his son. The pain of it was etched forever in his face.

  “We don’t know who they are, what connections they have, even what foreign allies these anarchists may have to draw on,” Denoon was saying, oblivious of grief, or perhaps not caring. “The dangers are enormous. We cannot underestimate them. Whatever the embarrassment to ourselves, our duty is clear.”

  “You speak as if they had unity,” Cordelia interrupted. “I don’t think we should assume that is so.”

  He looked annoyed. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no idea whether they have unity or not. I am only concerned with getting rid of them.”

  “My son was among them, whatever his delusions of purpose.” Cordelia’s voice was tight and thick with emotion. “Someone killed him. I wish to know who, and see him hanged.”

  Fear flared up in Vespasia again that it could have been Sheridan. It was more than just barely conceivable; it actually seemed possible. It raced through her mind. How could she protect him? How could she do something to prevent anyone knowing, even Pitt?

  She saw Enid staring at Sheridan also, as if the same terror gripped her. What did she know? How could she know anything, unless he had told her? Would he do that, lay such a burden on her? Or had she simply guessed? Did she know him well enough that he could not have such a secret from her?

  He must have changed from the man Vespasia had known. Would that man have killed anyone, for any reason? She did not know. Time, pain, and love change things. But she still believed Cordelia was the one who would kill to save herself, her honor, her reputation. She had the steel in her heart. But who could she use to actually pull the trigger? Who owed her enough, or was sufficiently afraid of her?

  What did Enid know, or the footman she seemed to trust so much?

  “We’d like to see all the anarchists hanged,” Denoon said roughly. “I really don’t care what for.” He was looking at Cordelia, not Sheridan. “Knowing who is individually guilty is a luxury we may not have, satisfying as it would be.”

  “Possibly not,” she said coldly. “But I shall still try!”

  His face was bleak. “I advise against it. There may be things about Magnus you would prefer not to know, not to mention prefer were not made public in a courtroom. You should consider long and hard before you tear open issues of which you do not know the nature or the extent.”

  She looked at him with loathing, her face like stone. “Do you know something about my son’s death that I do not, Edward?”

  “Of course he doesn’t!” said Enid desperately, half-rising to her feet. Deliberately she did not look at Sheridan. “That is absurd! I think grief has made you forget yourself, Cordelia.”

  “On the contrary!” Cordelia retorted. “Grief has made me remember a great deal that I should never have let slip from my mind!”

  “We all know many things.” Enid’s look did not flinch. She faced her sister-in-law almost without blinking, her body stiff, her eyes hard. “Most of them are best kept silent, if we are to live in any kind of peace. I am sure if you consider it, you will agree with me.”

  Cordelia’s face went scarlet, and then the color ebbed away, leaving her white. She turn
ed to Sheridan, but it was impossible to tell from her expression if it were for help or any of a dozen other reasons.

  He looked tired, almost indifferent. It seemed all old and stale to him.

  Vespasia felt surrounded by pain and anger she did not understand. Perhaps if she remained she would learn more, but she felt impelled to end it. She rose to her feet.

  “I agree with you,” she said firmly. “Sometimes to forget is the only sanity left, otherwise the past imprisons us and makes the future impossible.” She looked at Cordelia. “I shall accept Lady Albemarle’s invitation, and do all I can to gain the fullest support.” She straightened her skirts with a swift hand. “Thank you for your hospitality. If I hear more, I shall, of course, inform you. Good afternoon.”

  Sheridan stood also, and accompanied her to the front door. He stopped just inside, opening it himself so the footman retired out of hearing.

  “Vespasia,” he said gently.

  She did not want to look at him, but now deliberately to avoid doing so would be worse.

  “Enid is afraid that I killed Magnus myself,” he told her. “She sent her footman to follow me. He is loyal to her and loathes Edward. He would not betray me if it were not her wish. I think perhaps you are afraid of the same thing. I can see it in your face.”

  There was no escape now. “Did you?” she asked.

  He smiled very slightly, just a tiny curve at the corners of his lips. “Thank you for not denying it. Your honesty was always one of the things I loved about you most. No, I did not. I tried again and again to dissuade him from his path, but he would not listen. He was passionately sure that the corruption was too deep to cure except by violence. But I did not kill him, and I don’t know who did. I am hoping your Mr. Pitt will find that out.”