by Anne Perry
Murdoch looked at the stationmaster, ignoring Hester.
“You must understand, my wife was devoted to her mother. This has been a great shock to her.”
“Yes sir, only natural,” the stationmaster agreed. “ ’Course it is. Would to anyone, especially a young lady o’ sensibility.”
Griselda rose to her feet suddenly. “Let me see her!” she demanded, pushing her way forward.
“Now really, my dear,” Murdoch protested, grasping her shoulders. “That would do no good at all and you must rest. Think of your condition….”
“But I must!” She fought free of him and confronted Hester, her face so pale the dusting of freckles across her cheeks stood out like dirty marks. Her eyes were wild and staring. “What did she say to you?” she demanded. “She must have told you something! Something about her purpose in coming here—something about me! Didn’t she?”
“Only that she was coming to reassure you that you had no cause for anxiety,” Hester said gently. “She was quite definite about that. You need have no anxiety at all.”
“But why?” Griselda said furiously, her hands held up as if she would grasp Hester and shake her if she had dared. “Are you sure? She might not have meant it! She could have been simply—I don’t know—being kind.”
“I don’t think so,” Hester replied quite frankly. “From what I saw of Mrs. Farraline, she did not speak idly in order to set someone’s mind at rest; if what she had said was not completely true, she need not have mentioned it at all. Of course it is extremely difficult for you at such a dreadful time, but I should try to believe that you really do have no cause for concern.”
“Would you?” Griselda said eagerly. “Do you think so, Miss …”
“Latterly. Yes I do.”
“Come, my dear,” Connal said soothingly. “This is really not important now. We have arrangements to make. And you must write to your family in Edinburgh. There is a great deal to take care of.”
Griselda turned to him as if he had been speaking a foreign language.
“What?”
“Don’t worry yourself. I shall attend to it all. I shall write this morning, a full letter with all that we know. If I post it today, it will go on the night train, and they will receive it in Edinburgh tomorrow morning. I will assume then that it was very quiet and she almost certainly felt nothing.” He shook his head a little. “Now, my dear, this has been a terrible day for you. I shall take you home where Mama can care for you.” His voice held a sudden relief at having thought of the ideal way of releasing himself from a situation beyond his ability. “You really must consider your … health, my dear. You should rest. There is nothing you can do here, I assure you.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” the stationmaster said quickly. “You go with your husband. ’E is absolutely right, ma’am.”
Griselda hesitated, shot another anguished look at Hester, then succumbed to a superior force.
Hester watched her go with relief, and a sharp, sad memory of Mary saying how unnecessarily Griselda worried. She could almost hear Mary’s voice in her head, and the very humor in it. Perhaps she should have said more to comfort her. She had seemed more devastated by the lack of reassurance over her child than by her mother’s death. But perhaps that was the easier of the two emotions to face. Where some people retreated into anger, and she had seen that often enough, Griselda was grasping on to fear. Being with child, especially a first, could cause all kinds of strange turmoils in the mind, feelings that would not normally be so close to the surface.
But Griselda was gone, and there was nothing she could add now. Perhaps in time Murdoch would think of the right things to say or do.
It was nearly another hour of questions and repeated futile answers before Hester was permitted to leave the station. She had recounted to every appropriate authority the exact instructions she had been given in Edinburgh, how Mary had seemed during the evening, that she had made no complaint whatever of illness, on the contrary, she had seemed in unusually good spirits. No, Hester had heard nothing unusual in the night, the sound of the wheels on the track had obliterated almost everything else anyway. Yes, without question she had given Mrs. Farraline her medicine, one vial as instructed. The other vial had already been empty.
No, she did not know the cause of Mrs. Farraline’s death. She assumed it was the heart complaint from which she suffered. No, she had not been told the history of the illness. She was not nursing her, simply accompanying her and making sure she did not forget her medicine or take a double dose. Could she have done so? No, she had not opened the case herself, it was exactly where Hester had put it. Besides which, Mary was not absentminded, nor approaching senility.
At last, feeling numb with sadness, Hester was permitted to leave, and made her way to the street, where she hailed a hansom cab and gave the driver Callandra Daviot’s address. She did not even consider whether it was a courteous thing to turn up in the middle of the morning, unannounced and in a state of distress. Her desire to be warm and safe, and to hear a familiar voice, was so intense it drove out normal thoughts of decorum. Not that Callandra was someone who cared much for such things, but eccentricity was not the same as lack of consideration.
It was a gray day, with gusts of rain on the wind, but she was unaware of her surroundings. Grimy streets and soot-stained walls and wet pavements gave way to more gracious squares, falling leaves and splashes of autumn color, but they did not intrude into her consciousness.
“ ’Ere y’are, miss,” the driver said at last, peering down at her through the peephole.
“What?” she said abruptly.
“We’re ’ere, miss. Ye goin’ ter get out, or d’yer wanner stay sitting in ’ere? I’ll ’ave ter charge yer. I got me livin’ ter make.”
“No of course I don’t want to stay in here,” she said crossly, scrambling to open the door with one hand and grasp her bag with the other. She alighted awkwardly and, setting her bag on the pavement, paid him and bade him a good day. As the horse moved off, and the rain increased in strength, making broad puddles where the stones were uneven, she picked up the bag again and climbed the steps to the front door. Please heaven Callandra was at home, and not out engaged in one of her many interests. She had refused to think of that before, because she did not want to face the possibility, but now it seemed so likely she even hesitated on the step, and stood undecided in the rain, her feet wet, her skirts becoming sodden where they brushed the stones.
There was nothing to lose now. She pulled the bell knob and waited.
Immerse yourself in the mysterious world of Anne Perry’s Victorian London. Look for the this thrilling William Monk novel, now available in bookstores everywhere!
A BREACH OF PROMISE
An Inspector William Monk Novel
by Anne Perry
Stripping away the pretty masks that conceal society’s darkest transgressions, Anne Perry unflinchingly exposes the human heart’s deepest hiding places—and creates the most mesmerizing courtroom drama of her distinguished career.
Published by The Random House Publishing Group.
Available at your local bookstore.
On a sunless street deep in London’s dangerous slums, a respected solicitor is found dead—and beside him lies the barely living body of his son.
THE SILENT CRY
by
ANNE PERRY
The police are baffled until shrewd investigator William Monk uncovers a connection between them and a series of rapes and beatings of local prostitutes.
Then it becomes shockingly clear that the son must have killed his own father….
Published by The Random House Publishing Group.
Available in bookstores everywhere.
If you liked this novel, you won’t want to miss the rest….
The William Monk Novels
by
Anne Perry
A DANGEROUS MOURNING
DEFEND AND BETRAY
A SUDDEN, FEARFUL DEATH
CAIN HIS BROTHER
WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE
THE SILENT CRY
A BREACH OF PROMISE
THE TWISTED ROOT
SLAVES OF OBSESSION
FUNERAL IN BLUE
DEATH OF A STRANGER
THE SHIFTING TIDE
DARK ASSASSIN
Ballantine Books
Available at bookstores everywhere.
