Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

  In the middle of the afternoon, Daniel went to see Mercy Blackwell. He had no idea whether she would welcome him or not. He had been to her house before, when consulting her regarding Roman’s trial, and during the struggle to find any proof of his innocence. She knew perfectly well that Roman had lied about many things, but she also knew exactly when he was lying and when he was telling the truth. Daniel wondered if Roman was aware of quite how little he ever fooled her. He thought not. But it was a totally comfortable relationship, of that he was certain. There was a warmth in it, a natural friendship of two people who understood each other very well and, beneath any squabbling on the surface, held exactly the same values as to the kind of honesty that was important, and the jokes that were trivial. Above all they held a loyalty to each other that had no price.

  Daniel had also been certain that Mercy was one of the most vividly alive people he had ever known, and that her son’s death would have robbed her of all heart. For him to be hanged might even have taken from her the will to live.

  If he had not seen her vulnerability also, he would have been a little afraid of her. As it was, he had no hesitation presenting himself at her door early in the afternoon. He thought it was a time when she would be there, although he was prepared to wait as long as necessary, should she be out. He had to find out more about Ebony Graves, and not from her family, who may have actually known her less than anyone else.

  The house was on a quiet street in Pimlico, and from the outside it looked ordinary enough. He ascended the steps and knocked on the front door. He would not have been surprised if there were no answer, but he realised how disappointed he would be.

  Silence.

  He knocked again.

  This time, the door opened almost immediately. Mercy stood in the hallway. She was completely different from the exhausted woman he had seen the day the trial finished. Today, she radiated energy. The pallor was gone from her skin, and there was vitality in every aspect of her. She was quite small, a couple of inches over five foot, at least a foot shorter than Daniel, yet she carried her head so high that from a distance you would have sworn she was statuesque. Her magnificent hair was coiled on top of her head, giving her another two inches. Roman had told him that when it was loose, it was long enough that she could sit on it, and all shining black, except for the white streak in front.

  ‘Well!’ she said with pleasure. ‘I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you in trouble?’

  Daniel wondered if something were emanating from him, like an aura she could see, or if she felt he would not have come otherwise. He smiled, and stepped into the hallway. It was exactly as he remembered it. There were large mirrors, so placed as to make the space seem far bigger than it was. There appeared to be too many doors. He could see a dozen pictures, yet he knew there were only five. Two hat racks held an enormous number of hats, not obvious reflections of one another, because they looked more varied seen from different sides. Some brims were at unusual angles, some had feathers, others had flowers. All were in jewel colours.

  Daniel found himself smiling. This house always affected him that way. It was an exercise in the art of illusion – or, as he preferred to think of it, as dreams, extensions of reality.

  ‘Yes, I am in trouble,’ he said, and the admission made the reality so much easier to cope with. ‘I have a case much more complicated than your son’s, because I don’t know if the man is guilty or not.’

  ‘But you are defending him?’ She turned and led the way to one of the rooms off the hall.

  ‘No, not really.’ He followed her into the room, which was also familiar. For once he was not interested in the wild collection of things in it. Nothing matched, but because there was no pattern, there was no sense of dissimilarities either. At least there was none to him. He knew that each piece had history and represented some friendship or adventure. She had kept many memories sharp by having around her a Chinese screen exquisitely painted, next to a Persian hookah complete with pipes and a delicately carved glass bowl. It was easy to imagine dreams while seeing the painted birds on the porcelain dish on the wall, and half a dozen Delft figurines on the side tables.

  ‘He’s already been convicted. The head of my chambers is determined that we should appeal the verdict. I have nineteen days left,’ he told her.

  She gestured for him to sit down in one of the plush-covered chairs, and she took the other. They were not a pair, but the rich colours complemented each other surprisingly well. How could anyone have foreseen that crimson and plum would do anything but jar the senses, or that a purple cushion would make it seem natural? The sheer unlikelihood of the room pleased him.

  ‘I need to know more about the victim,’ he said, without waiting for her to ask. ‘I think you may be able to find out, or actually already know. Her name was Ebony Graves.’ He saw the immediate sorrow in Mercy’s eyes. ‘You knew her,’ he said.

  ‘No. Not really. I knew of her. I met her once,’ she corrected him. She was sitting in the crimson chair, and she slowly lowered her head until he could not see her expression. It was unnecessary to ask if Mercy had liked her. It was there in the grief of her gestures.

  ‘I want to know what she was like,’ he went on quietly. ‘I need to find out who killed her and, if possible, why.’

  She looked up. ‘But they are going to hang her husband. Do you really think he is innocent? Or is it your job to speak for the condemned,’ she answered herself, ‘so they can hang him and go home to sleep in peace?’

  ‘He is an unpleasant man, but that is not necessarily the same as being guilty,’ Daniel replied. ‘And if by some chance he is not guilty, then someone else is.’

  Mercy straightened up and looked at him for a long time without speaking.

  He waited her out.

  ‘She fought a lot of causes,’ she said quietly. ‘The world is changing very fast. Too fast for a lot of people, but not fast enough for others who have already caught the scent of change, and become intoxicated. Change does that to some. They fear the new. It seemed that Ebony was not afraid of anything. Not afraid enough to run away, poor creature. She wanted not only women to vote for Members of Parliament, but to be Members. She wanted education for girls. But academic, not just to speak foreign languages, and play the piano. She wanted them to read books, not just walk with a pile of them on their heads. And to practise the sciences. And she knew it would upset society. Equality always does, but I don’t think she realised how much. We talk splendidly about equality, but the reality of it appals us. We want change, but it must start tomorrow, not today, and above all, not here.’

  Daniel smiled, not because it was either good or funny, but because it made him think well of Ebony. ‘She was a crusader,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Mercy agreed. ‘But she made many people dream, too. And one man’s dream is another’s nightmare.’

  ‘Did her husband agree, or not?’

  ‘He was too busy writing his stories revealing the weaknesses of other people to care, I understand. He believed she would never achieve anything except a degree of unpopularity. At least that is what I think.’

  ‘And he did not mind that? It did not bother him?’ Then a new thought came to his mind. ‘If he exposed people in his biographies, did she discover any of the facts for him that he used?’

  Mercy weighed her answer for so long, he thought she was going to refuse to respond. Then, at last, she spoke. ‘I suppose that is possible. She had opportunities, connections that he could never aspire to. And certainly she was both clever and observant. But I would prefer to think she did not repeat secrets to him. In fact, I choose to believe she despised gossip. Besides, for all I know, she was far too clever to soil her own reputation.’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘Sometimes you are so very young.’ She sighed. ‘My dear, a secret exposed is a secret you can no longer use. It is an opportunity wasted, is it not?’

  ‘You mean Ebony blackmailed people?’

  ‘That is an ugly wo
rd. But I think she might have made suggestions to people that they help certain causes – in their own interest. I don’t know. As I said, I only met her once. But I have friends who knew her better than I did. Do you want me to make enquiries?’

  Daniel was not sure. She had the air of not being in the least discreet, nor able to keep a secret, let alone be inclined to keep one. He looked at her bright dark eyes, and half-smile on her lips, and realised that it all very well might be an act. She had never actually told him anything that was secret, only things that were entertaining. He had thought he knew her well, but perhaps what she presented was a deliberate illusion.

  ‘Time is short,’ he replied. ‘Very short. Nineteen more days. Ebony was not only killed, but disfigured by fire, deliberately. I don’t want the case closed and her husband hanged, if he was not the man who did this to her.’

  ‘I will see if I can find information for you,’ Mercy replied. ‘Either about her – or him.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Now, tea?’ she offered. ‘I have the most excellent cake.’

  Chapter Seven

  Daniel went over all the evidence again, later in the afternoon, and had a brief supper with Kitteridge, who looked tired and disappointed. They sat in the darkest corner of a familiar public house and ate hot cottage pie with plenty of onions.

  ‘So, what have you got?’ Kitteridge asked miserably. ‘I read and reread the transcript and all my notes. I’m going to start to look up precedent tomorrow, but I don’t think I’ll find anything.’

  ‘Are you going to look up cases that were appealed and succeeded?’ Daniel asked. He wanted to encourage Kitteridge, but he also thought Kitteridge’s mission was pointless.

  ‘I don’t think it will help, but there’s nothing else,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘I wish to hell I’d never been given the case.’ He took another mouthful of the mashed potatoes.

  ‘If fford Croft didn’t put his best man on, Graves would have crucified him,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘For some reason we don’t know, he really wanted to get him off.’

  Kitteridge looked up, almost as if he suspected Daniel of being sarcastic.

  Daniel held his gaze with complete innocence. ‘He must have reason for defending Graves,’ Daniel argued. ‘He knows something that we don’t, but why wouldn’t he help us if he wants us to succeed?’

  ‘He knows a lot of things we don’t,’ Kitteridge said with an edge to his voice. He reached for the salt, then changed his mind. ‘That’s why he’s head of chambers, and we are its employees. What have you found out, anyway?’

  ‘Apparently Ebony Graves was active in fighting for social change,’ Daniel replied. ‘But rather more interesting than that, Russell Graves really is a well-known biographer, if we’re bent on dissecting people rather than recording their lives in an even-handed way. I wanted to find out whether she did any of his research . . . betrayed anyone’s confidence.’

  Kitteridge looked more interested.

  Daniel went on, ‘I’m going to the house tomorrow morning. I want to see where it happened. Talk to the servants. Hear what they say. I know we’ve got police reports, but they may not be exact. And they don’t tell us expressions, how people looked when they answered. Perhaps they didn’t ask the same questions I’ll ask. I have the advantage of having seen Graves in court. And then afterward, in custody, to see what an intimidating bastard he can be. They might say to me things they would dare not say in his presence.’

  ‘You don’t think we’ll win, do you?’ That wasn’t a question. Kitteridge’s face was without hope, without its usual energy and black humour.

  ‘Probably not,’ Daniel agreed with a grimace. ‘But, like you, I have that shred of belief that he really didn’t do it.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s something missing.’

  ‘Very precise,’ Kitteridge said sarcastically. ‘Very lawyerly. You remind me of my mother, when she’s arranging flowers in the church. “Very nice, my dear, but there’s something missing. I think something purple, don’t you? Purple always ties it together, you know.”’ He looked away. ‘Sorry. By all means, go out to his house and ask the servants. Tell them you’re looking for something purple to tie it all together.’

  Daniel did not bother to answer. He finished his cottage pie and considered asking if they had any more.

  The following morning, with nineteen days before Graves was to be hanged, Daniel set out immediately after breakfast on an early train to Herne Hill, on the southern outskirts of London.

  From the station, he had to find a taxi, and it took him some time. Eventually he stepped out, paid the driver, and turned to look at the garden that stretched beyond the front gateway, out of sight around the house, and what looked to be a large orchard. There were trees, most clipped, and flowerbeds in early bloom. It was easy to believe it would require the full-time services of two gardeners to keep it in this immaculate condition.

  It was an impressive house, built for both comfort and grace. There might have been at least eight bedrooms, apart from servants’ quarters in the attic. There was also a carriage house, although whether it was used for carriages or automobiles these days was an option. Probably Graves preferred automobiles. It would save him the cost of keeping a stable staff, feeding horses, and paying vets’ bills.

  Daniel approached the front door, suddenly a little self-conscious, aware of the sensitivity of his purpose. He had no police authority, but then, on the other hand, he had now the enormous burden of saving Graves from the rope, if it was even remotely possible.

  He knocked on the door and stepped back.

  Had the household been bothered by the press and maybe would not even answer to a stranger? He could not blame them. He must be prepared to insist. Graves had been found guilty, but this was still his house. He would expect his children and his staff to serve his interests while he was alive. Another nineteen days!

  The door opened and a tall and portly man stood just inside. He wore a dark, formal suit. He looked Daniel straight in the eyes. ‘Yes, sir?’ he enquired coolly.

  ‘Would you be Mr Falthorne?’ Daniel asked.

  The man’s grey eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Before I answer any questions, sir, I’ll ask who wishes to know. We have been troubled by insistent and intrusive persons lately, and I have no intention of allowing the family to be further harassed.’

  ‘Neither should you.’ Daniel smiled bleakly. ‘I am Daniel Pitt. I represented Mr Graves in court when my predecessor was unfortunately injured in an automobile accident. Or should I say I assisted Mr Kitteridge. He is presently doing all he can to see if there is an error in the law sufficient to form grounds for an appeal. I am endeavouring to find some solution to the tragedy of Mrs Graves’ death other than the one the police proposed.’ He saw the butler’s face darken. ‘At the request of Mr Marcus fford Croft.’

  Falthorne was clearly confused as to what his decision should be. From his sombre appearance, he had lost all hope of a successful verdict. Now he was presented with hope. Was it a cruel trick, or a brave one? ‘If you would care to come inside, sir, it would cause less speculation, should someone pass by in the street.’

  ‘I’m sorry to distress you,’ Daniel said, ‘but time is short. I imagine you would wish us to make all efforts to find another less tragic solution, for the family’s sake.’

  ‘Yes, sir. If you will follow me?’ Falthorne stepped back, into the hall, and stood aside to let Daniel come after him. Falthorne turned. ‘I will not allow you to distress Miss Sarah. Do not offer her false hope that the facts are other than have been presented. It would be a very callous piece of cruelty. And I . . . I will not permit it.’ He stood very straight and faced Daniel with a slight flush on his cheeks. He was exceeding his duty, yet he was doing what he perfectly, clearly believed to be right.

  Daniel thought it was not only a matter of this man taking his position in the house as effectively head of it. Certainly, he had the responsibility for all the servants, both male and female, but al
so there was no parent to care for the young people who had lost both their mother, and were about to lose their father. Possibly he had known them all their lives.

  Daniel was perfectly aware that he was going to hurt them more, and he could not see any way out of it. Momentarily, he hated Graves for putting him in this position. Had he no thought at all beyond his own self-interests?

  ‘Would you prefer that I did not try?’ Daniel asked. ‘I admit, the hope is small.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Falthorne said immediately. Then his expression changed, as if the light had moved and illuminated a different part of his emotions. ‘The guilt will be terrible, whatever the truth may be, if we did not do our best. If you will come with me, sir, you can start with Mrs Warlaby, the housekeeper, while I prepare Miss Sarah to meet with you. She will probably wish to make sure Mr Arthur is well taken care of before she sees you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel accepted.

  Falthorne offered him a cup of tea, and he declined. He settled himself in a small but very comfortable sitting room. He should be offered hospitality, and yet he could not very well interview the staff in the formal withdrawing room.

  It was only a few minutes before Mrs Warlaby came in, closing the sitting-room door quietly behind her and remaining standing.

  Daniel did not know what he expected, but not this dignified, slender woman with her black dress and white apron, and her ring of keys hanging from her belt. He had not grown up with a housekeeper, although he was used to servants. Some of them had been almost like members of the family. Ridiculously, he remembered the one maid of his childhood. Gracie Phipps was barely five foot tall and had unlimited courage, and opinions about everything. Later, when he was a young man, they had had a cook, a housemaid, and a manservant. Gracie was the one who stayed in his mind and later, Minnie Maude.

  He stood up. ‘How do you do, Mrs Warlaby? Thank you for sparing your time.’

  ‘Mr Falthorne said you are trying to find some explanation of Mrs Graves’ death that does not blame Mr Graves,’ she said with a very direct stare. She had grey eyes and fading fair hair. She must have been a handsome woman in her youth. ‘I hope you are not going to raise false hopes for Miss Sarah and Mr Arthur. They are just beginning to accept this . . . this appalling situation . . .’