Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

  ‘They were close to their mother?’ He gestured to the chair opposite her, but she declined, preferring to stand. It left him no choice but to stand also.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Very. What is it you think I may be able to tell you, Mr Pitt? If I knew anything relevant, I would have told the police.’

  ‘I’m sure you must have answered their questions. But I shall ask you different questions. I believe Mrs Graves was involved in various social issues? Such as female franchise, for example.’

  Mrs Warlaby’s expression hardened and her chin came up a fraction. ‘Do you disapprove of that, Mr Pitt? Think it is deserving of death?’ Her voice shook a little, and she was unable to control it.

  He made an instant decision. ‘Not at all, Mrs Warlaby. On the contrary, my own mother is a very strong fighter for such rights, and has been considerably more outspoken than is socially acceptable, in spite of my father’s position in the establishment.’ He said it with a rueful smile. It was perfectly true. But then his mother had been in a far higher situation in society, and her sister was both titled and extremely wealthy. It had never been sufficient to silence Charlotte Pitt’s opinions, especially where she felt injustice was involved.

  Mrs Warlaby’s face softened, but she still looked dubious. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately, some of those most vehemently opposed are other women. I have asked my mother why, and she has a very dark opinion of them. Had she known Mrs Graves, I think she would have liked her, from what I have heard.’

  There were tears in the housekeeper’s eyes, but she ignored them. ‘Oh, she would. She had a very fine, rich spirit! She never attacked people, or spoke ill of them. She used to make fun of them instead. But that can make you far more enemies than outright argument. She told me some of the situations, and we laughed till we cried.’ Mrs Warlaby sniffed and hunted for a handkerchief in her pocket.

  Daniel gave her a moment in which to regain her composure. He gestured towards one of the chairs, and this time she accepted and sat down. ‘Tell me something about her,’ he requested. ‘I would like to be able to tell my mother something that was real, not just the usual good intentions.’ He settled to listen, not only as his job, but as his pleasure.

  The picture Mrs Warlaby drew was far more vivid than anything others had said. She saw a woman who was passionate about causes, to the point of foolhardiness, sometimes beyond, scaldingly honest at times, but often extremely funny. The housekeeper was obviously very fond of her, and Daniel thought more loyal than accurate.

  ‘I wish I had known her,’ he said simply, when Mrs Warlaby drew to a close.

  ‘You would have liked her, sir,’ Mrs Warlaby said, and Daniel realised that that was a high compliment from the housekeeper.

  ‘We must be quite certain that we have the truth of her death.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pitt,’ she agreed immediately.

  ‘Then tell me of the people who visited her here, in case there is someone who felt very violently against her cause. It must have been somebody she trusted, to have allowed them into her private rooms. They could not have followed her to her bedroom unless they were in the house and knew the way.’

  Mrs Warlaby looked startled. ‘I suppose – I suppose you’re right. What a dreadful thing.’

  ‘Somebody did,’ he told her, curious that she should feel that even more deeply than that it should be her husband. That was a thought to investigate more fully.

  He noted down the names that she gave him, and the causes they were allied with. Then he thanked her and promised to look into it. She stood up to leave, and he rose to his feet as well, as if they were of equal status.

  She gave him a brief smile.

  ‘Mrs Warlaby, has anyone ever attacked her before? Struck her, or threatened to, that you know of?’

  ‘No . . .’ she hesitated.

  ‘Anyone at all . . .?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  He guessed. ‘Mr Graves?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘But that’s not a crime. She was his wife. And I thought you said you believed he was innocent . . .’

  ‘I believe he might be,’ he corrected. ‘And as you say, hitting someone and killing them are two quite different things.’

  But when she had gone, he wondered how very different they were, actually. He could not imagine his father hitting his mother, no matter what she might do. And she was exasperating at times, when she was fighting for a cause she believed to be right and just. Quite often she was correct, too, but so far as Daniel knew, she did not remind Pitt of it.

  He saw the cook, Mrs Hanslope, who could add nothing, except that Mrs Graves was a very good mistress, never one to interfere in the kitchen, or to expect miracles at short notice, like a dinner for twelve with no warning.

  The kitchen maid had nothing to offer, likewise the bootboy and the housemaid. Daniel went outside to see the two gardeners. However, they offered only that Mrs Graves appreciated their work, and knew quite a lot about flowers. Daniel had gone through all the names of the flowers he knew, and accepted their corrections when he got them wrong.

  Salcombe was the elder of the two. ‘Bless you, sir, put out in the sunshine and it’ll do fine, but give you nothing but leaves. Need shade, they do. Here . . .’ He led the way to a corner of the garden where the shade was deep. ‘See! There’s the best.’

  ‘Quite a hidden spot,’ Daniel observed.

  ‘Got to walk a garden to appreciate it,’ Salcombe nodded sagely. ‘Don’t just look out the window.’

  ‘Did Mr Graves look out of the window?’

  Salcombe shook his head. ‘Walked through the garden without seeing it.’

  That was disapproval. Daniel could not get him to express any further opinion. He thanked him and went back inside. Now he must face speaking to Ebony’s daughter. That was going to be difficult, and even though he had thought about it for some time, he had no ideas in his mind. What do you say to a young woman whose mother has been murdered, and whose father is to be hanged for it in a matter of days?

  For propriety’s sake, Miss Purbright, the lady’s maid, sat silently in the corner. She was the one member of staff Daniel had yet to speak with. She must know Ebony better than anyone else. Just as no man was a hero to his valet, no woman had secrets from her lady’s maid. His mother had grown up in a house where there were valets and lady’s maids. Aunt Emily had always had one. Daniel was familiar with the custom, even if he had never experienced it himself. His father was first a policeman, in the days when the police were of a social standing with the bailiff or the rat catcher. His mother had married for love, and love only. She had given up her social status and the money that went with it. In return, she had received comparative poverty but endless interest, admiration, and a deepening love.

  What had Ebony Graves received? Only an early and scandalous death.

  Miss Purbright remained in the chair nearest the door, sitting uncomfortably. Daniel presumed she sat at all only because to stand would have drawn attention to her, and perhaps make Sarah even more tense.

  Sarah Graves was a handsome young woman, in a very quiet way. She had nondescript fair colouring, and regular features. She was of average height and a pleasing enough figure. The only things remarkable about her were the grace of her composure, and her unusually dark blue eyes, dark-lashed, and very direct. It was her gracefulness that reminded him in some way of his sister, Jemima. She was now a mother, and lived in New York, and he missed her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Pitt,’ Sarah said calmly, coming into the room, glancing at the maid, and then at Daniel. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you, but I would like to lay to rest some of the spiteful things that are being said about my mother.’ She sat down in the chair opposite him.

  Miss Purbright had risen when Sarah entered, then she resumed her seat in the corner and sat silent guard. Daniel made no comment to Sarah on the fact that it was Ebony’s reputation she was here to protect from ill-informed gossip, not her fathe
r’s from the charge of murder. He drew in his breath to say so, then changed his mind. There were far more subtle ways to draw out explanations. His instinct was to be gentle, both personally and professionally.

  ‘I cannot imagine how distressing it must be for you to hear irresponsible things said about her, and you cannot defend her,’ he said gravely. ‘I have heard my own mother criticised unjustly, and it was horrible.’

  She looked surprised. ‘Did they say she was strident, malicious, wanting to have roles that rightly belonged to men?’ she asked with a hard edge to her voice.

  He heard the tension as she sought to control it.

  ‘That she was unnatural? And suggest all kinds of . . . disgusting things?’ she went on.

  ‘People say that when they are frightened . . .’

  ‘Of what? What is frightening about women having the right to vote for the Government?’ she demanded. ‘We have to obey the laws, just like men. Shouldn’t we have a say in what they are?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘But it is a change. For women, it is a responsibility some of them don’t want. For men, it is a loss of control, and people always hate giving up control, going into a new situation they can’t predict, losing power, status . . .’

  ‘Would you like it if your mother did that?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows a little.

  He smiled. ‘She didn’t ask me if I minded or not. And, honestly, I don’t think it would have made any difference.’

  Sarah was silent for a moment, surprised. It was obviously an answer she had not foreseen.

  ‘Did it frighten you?’ he asked.

  ‘No! Well . . . a bit. But I think she was right! And brave . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I understand women’s suffrage was not the only cause she fought for.’

  ‘No.’ Her cheeks flooded with colour. ‘There were other things, to do with having child after child, with no way of . . . stopping . . .’

  He realised she was terribly embarrassed, discussing such things with a young man she barely knew, yet she was proud of her mother for fighting so controversial a battle, and she would not back down from defending her.

  What could he say to put her at ease? And possibly learn more about people who might have hated or feared Ebony Graves enough to kill her?

  ‘It is a subject which arouses deep feelings,’ he answered. ‘But it doesn’t excuse violence.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Do you think someone might have killed her over that? But how could they break into the house? And why would they? The police said no one broke in –wouldn’t they take the opportunity to attack my mother in the street somewhere? When she was maybe alone, leaving a meeting or . . . or . . .’

  ‘Not someone she knew in other circumstances, and would let in herself, not fearing anything except perhaps an argument?’ he asked.

  She hesitated. ‘Perhaps . . .’

  ‘Did your father have views on such things?’

  ‘You mean he let someone in who . . . or that that is why he killed her?’ She did not seem to have any difficulty framing the question. ‘He had a temper,’ she added. ‘Could it have been an accident?’

  Should he lie? There would be no way back, and every instinct told him not to try deceiving her. She would resent it, and turn him into an enemy.

  ‘Her death might have been, but not the fire afterwards,’ he answered.

  She winced, and the colour drained from her face. She hunched a little further down in her chair and hugged her arms around herself. ‘I really don’t know. I hate to think of my father doing that, but no one broke in. The police said so. It has to be someone she let in, or . . . one of us. That can only be my father.’ She glanced at Miss Purbright. ‘All the staff are good, and they are honest. The only men inside the house are Falthorne and Joe, the bootboy. He’s only fourteen, anyway.’

  ‘And your brother . . .’

  Her head jerked up. ‘Arthur’s in a wheelchair! That’s ridiculous. He adored Mother, anyway. How dare you—’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting he did such a thing,’ Daniel said. ‘Only that he might know something. People who are restricted in participation often notice more than other people.’

  ‘Oh.’ She crumpled up again. The pain was marked clearly in her face.

  He realised that she had to be exhausted by the circumstances of her mother’s death, her father’s arrest, the trial, and now the hanging looming up in days, and a sick brother to look after, perhaps to comfort. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Graves,’ he said. ‘I pushed you too far. I’m trying to find any answer other than your father’s guilt.’

  She looked at him. He was extremely aware of the burning blue of her eyes.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Did she believe he was guilty because of the weight of evidence against him? Or did she wish to? Did she know something further than the police had found?

  ‘We must not execute the wrong person.’ He avoided the word ‘hanged’. ‘If there is any doubt at all, we must find it.’

  She was trembling a little. She rose to her feet, and after a quick glance at Miss Purbright, she walked stiffly to the door. ‘If you will come with me, I will take you to Arthur. I believe you want to speak with him, too. You do not need to come, thank you, Miss Purbright. I will be quite all right.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Sarah,’ the lady’s maid conceded.

  Arthur Graves was a striking-looking young man. Had his health been normal, he would have been handsome. He had his mother’s good looks, with black hair and eyes almost as dark. His regular features were marred only by extreme pallor, and the marks of chronic pain. He was seated in a wheelchair, with a rug over his legs, even though the day was warm.

  The room was interesting, although Daniel had little time to do more than notice it. It faced east, but had a skylight to the north that filled it with light. There was only just time to glimpse on the walls several almost impressionistic pictures of birds in flight. At a glance, Daniel knew what they were. In pen and ink, details in heads and many feathers, the rest was only a sweeping suggestion to the mind of speed and freedom, endless possibilities of movement.

  Those that were painted had only a limited palette: blue and grey, denoting windy sky, shreds of cloud and, again, movement.

  Sarah was introducing him to Arthur and he had paid less attention to her than was polite.

  ‘How do you do, sir?’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m sorry, my attention was taken by the beautiful room.’

  Arthur smiled. ‘Yes, isn’t it? Mother and Sarah designed it for me.’

  Daniel heard the slight tremor in his voice when he mentioned his mother. How much had they told him of the truth?

  He felt Sarah’s presence almost at his elbow. She was going to be head of the household soon. In practical terms, she was already. Daniel knew, without any word from her, that she would defend her brother at any cost whatsoever. How had Russell Graves taken to his only son being an invalid? Was he angry, ashamed? Or willing to defend him even more than Sarah was? Somebody had paid for this beautiful room. Did Arthur ever go out, or was this his world?

  Had Ebony and Graves quarrelled over cost? And what treatment he should receive, or was best for him? Perhaps they had not agreed. He did not wish to ask Sarah. The butler would know.

  ‘May I sit down?’ he asked Arthur.

  ‘Of course,’ Arthur replied immediately. ‘Falthorne came up and told me who you are and what you are here for. I’m afraid I won’t be much use to you. I’ve really got no idea what happened.’ He had a nice voice, deeper than Daniel would have expected, and his diction was beautiful. No doubt he had been privately tutored. Being too disabled to join any community activities, he had all day to learn those things of the mind. Anything to take his thoughts off the pain, and to enlarge his limited world.

  ‘I understand,’ Daniel said quietly, his mind racing as to what he could ask this young man. ‘Were you aware of your mother’s battles regarding female suffrage, for example? My mother doesn’t allow me
not to know.’

  Arthur smiled. ‘Sounds like my mother. Yes. And I think she is right.’ He spoke instinctively in the present tense. He had not absorbed the idea that she was gone. ‘They’ll win, in the end. Have to. They are half the human race, after all. But most people cling onto the past, as if it were a life raft, and all of us on a sinking ship.’

  ‘That’s a grim analogy,’ Daniel remarked.

  Arthur gave a rueful little gesture, infinitely expressive.

  ‘Father didn’t approve, and he made it very heavily known.’ He glanced quickly at Sarah, and then, assured of her approval, back to Daniel again. ‘Is your father like that?’

  Daniel tried to think clearly. ‘He keeps his rebellions pretty quiet. They are more effective that way.’

  ‘Are they?’ Arthur looked doubtful.

  ‘Yes. I think so. You see, he has the power to actually do something. So, it’s better if he says nothing, and takes people by surprise.’

  This time Arthur’s smile was wide, showing beautiful teeth. ‘Your father sounds like a fine fellow. I think I should like him.’

  ‘Is your father not the same?’ It was a delicate question, but as soon as Daniel spoke, he felt it was too obvious.

  Arthur shrugged. ‘I would have said devious, rather than subtle.’ It was a candid admission – and Arthur’s eyes were on Daniel as he made it.

  Sarah was watching Daniel. He could feel her gaze. The moment he threatened Arthur in any way, even emotionally, she would shut down the interview. He knew it as surely as if she had said so.

  Was Graves a bully? How could he find out? Surely, he would not be a physical one – strike a crippled son? No. Ebony would have fought him if he had. Or was that what had happened? And she had lost? Mrs Warlaby had said that Graves had hit his wife . . .

  They were waiting.