by Anne Perry
She turned away.
‘Wouldn’t people know?’ he asked. ‘Do you think it has anything to do with her death? That Graves found out . . .?’
‘Do you think it’s such a sin?’ she asked, looking not at him, but at the X-ray again. ‘She had children. She can’t have been that old.’
He looked at Miriam, bent over the magnifying glass again. He remembered what fford Croft had said about her studies, her intelligence, and that the authorities had not recognised her achievements, or given her degrees, even though she had passed all the examinations.
Nobody cared how old a man was in marriage, but a woman had to be young enough to bear healthy children, to be acceptable as a bride. That meant probably his own age, or less. Ebony had lied for a good reason. ‘But she was funny, charming, brave and clever, according to what Mercy Blackwell told me,’ he said aloud. ‘And beautiful, in her own way. Why should Graves care?’
‘I don’t think it had anything to do with it,’ she replied. Her loss of composure had been so slight perhaps he had only imagined it, because he had made an insensitive remark.
‘What then?’ he said. He was lost.
‘Remember the clothes, and the boots in particular?’
‘Yes.’
‘Those boots don’t fit her very well.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ There was only one idea on the edge of his mind, growing clearer all the time. He took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t Ebony Graves!’
Miriam looked at him, her eyes bright again, clear. She nodded. ‘Exactly. Which raises many questions. Who is she? And where is Ebony? Is she alive, or dead? And why did Sarah say it was her mother? Did she think it was? Did she ever really look at that terribly disfigured corpse enough to know who it was? And why was it dressed in Ebony’s clothes, and Ebony’s boots, which don’t fit her?’
‘And who killed her?’ Daniel added. ‘And why? “Why?” may answer all the rest.’
‘I think we had better go back to Graves’ house and ask a few more very probing questions.’ Miriam stood up straight and stared at Daniel. ‘Come with me. You must need these answers as much as I do. Graves might be telling the truth when he says he did not kill Ebony. But he may have killed somebody else.’
‘We’ll go on the early train tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Why not now?’ she asked impatiently. ‘There’s no time to waste!’
‘I’ve got something else to do this afternoon.’
She appeared startled. ‘Oh.’
Daniel realised how rude he had sounded. ‘Forgive me, I’m taking you for granted. It’s a rather delicate matter I need to attend to, and I’m not looking forward to it.’
Miriam smiled in sudden sympathy. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do we need to bring any of this with us?’ He gestured towards her equipment.
‘No. But I need to pack this woman, whoever she is, in the ice chamber, and make sure I have all my notes. Now that we’re not leaving until morning, I can take my time.’
‘I’m going back to the office to report to Kitteridge and your father.’
‘What?’ Marcus fford Croft’s face filled with amazement and complete incredulity. ‘I hope this is not your idea of humour, Pitt?’ He blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it of delusions.
‘No, sir,’ Daniel said soberly. ‘Miss fford Croft found evidence—’
‘Miriam . . .’ fford Croft ran his hands through his hair and left it standing on end. ‘God have mercy! Have you told Kitteridge? I suppose you haven’t.’
‘I thought I should tell you first, sir.’
‘Yes, so you should. Well, you’d better go and tell him now!’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Daniel left immediately and went to look for Kitteridge. He found him in the library.
‘You look flustered,’ he observed, looking at Daniel curiously.
Daniel took a deep breath. ‘The body isn’t Ebony,’ he said bluntly. ‘We don’t know who it is.’
Kitteridge did not know whether to laugh or lose his temper. He decided to laugh. ‘God help us!’ he said with sincerity. ‘We are going to need it.’
The next morning, he met Miriam at the railway station. He thought he might have difficulty finding her because he had not arranged a particular place. Before Daniel had returned to chambers with the news, they had taken a long time to store the body properly, finish all the notes, and wash and put away every instrument that had been used or possibly contaminated. Even washing the floor of the pieces of burned hair and skin had been a large task. She would not leave it until the room was ready for the next autopsy she might perform. Probably it would be a tidy-up job, some detail left out of an earlier example of somebody else’s work. Perhaps something to prepare for an anatomy lecture at one of the universities. She did not complain, but Daniel saw in her face that she felt wounded only to be given low-level jobs.
He should have agreed a place to meet with her. He had been too tired, and overwhelmed. He thought now that under the central clock in the station would be a good place. Most people looked at the clock, at some time or other. He would have to hope the same thought would occur to her. He had been there less than five minutes, watching businessmen stride by with their rolled-up umbrellas in one hand, and newspapers in the other. Even though it was a bright May morning, most of them were wearing grey or black and, of course, pinstripes. Would he get to look like that, in ten or fifteen years? It was like a uniform, and there were certainly ranks: the commanders and the junior managers, corporals! And foot soldiers, except that they did not keep step and they were dressed in a variety of browns and greys.
Was the law going to be like that? The crusade to save someone, like Blackwell – or more like Graves, whom you wanted to see condemned with a sigh of relief. But mostly it would be petty burglaries, squabbles over mistakes, and the occasional grievous bodily harm.
‘Daniel?’
He turned and saw Miriam walking quickly across the platform. She was wearing a beautifully tailored suit of dark grey, with a crisp white blouse. It had just a touch of lace at the collar. Perhaps a hat was necessary, but he preferred her bright hair without it. He nearly said so, but realised it was far too personal a remark to make to a woman he barely knew.
‘Good morning, Miss fford Croft,’ he said, snapping to attention. ‘We have fifteen minutes. I don’t think it’s enough time to get a cup of tea.’
‘I had breakfast this morning, thank you. Didn’t you? And for goodness’ sake, call me Miriam.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘Miriam. I had breakfast. Mrs Portiscale is trying to fatten me up. They might give us luncheon in the servants’ hall. It was very good indeed when I was there before. And you hear a lot by listening to their conversation.’ He fell in step beside her as they made their way onto the platform they needed. The train was already there, and ready to board. ‘Although I’m not at all sure they’ll invite us this time.’
‘Who have you decided to give this news to first?’ she asked, putting her Gladstone bag in the rack above the seat before he could reach up and do it for her. They had agreed to be prepared in case an overnight stay was necessary. He put his beside it, then waited for her to choose a seat next to the window, and facing the engine.
‘Sarah should be told first in respect for her being the elder child. Falthorne, the butler, is head of the household in all but name, but he would think it out of order for me to tell anyone other than Sarah first,’ he replied. If he had learned anything at all about Falthorne, it was his love of order. Daniel had learned from his mother that when life is in chaos, there is a certain comfort in order. Things don’t get lost, moved, or forgotten. One still needs to eat, to sleep, to have laundry done. The rhythm of housework, busy hands, can hold the world together when it seems to be falling apart. There had been a murder in the house – believed to be Arthur and Sarah’s mother. Their father was due to be hanged for murder less than a fortnight from now. Then Sarah and Arthur would be alone. The house woul
d have to be sold, and the servants scattered to find whatever new positions they could. The shadow of the scandal would follow them.
Daniel saw from Miriam’s expression that she understood as much.
He determined to speak on something else on the journey.
‘Where did you study?’ he asked.
‘Cambridge,’ she answered with a smile. ‘My professor said I had an insufficiency of humility and an overabundance of opinions. I admit, if I possessed any of the genius my school mistress had believed of me, it was for fending off inconvenient questions. It was more than all the rest of the students put together.’
He smiled. ‘I think I knew him.’
‘I haven’t even told you his name.’ Then she realised his humour and laughed. ‘I guess he gets around.’
‘Did you enjoy it? There’s a lot in Cambridge, other than a few tediously pompous professors.’
‘Oh, yes. It’s a lovely city. I loved exploring it. And I belonged to the amateur theatrical society.’ She stopped and stared at him ruefully. ‘Ridiculous, isn’t it! Not at all a suitable thing for a chemist to do.’
‘But perfectly suitable for human beings,’ he said with certainty. ‘Which is more important. If you cut out anything other than mathematics, you may know everything about how the world is made, but you’ve missed the purpose of it all. That’s the difference between the wise man and the fool. It’s not counting stars, or knowing what they’re made of, it’s actually seeing them, and caring.’
‘Are you sure you’re right to follow the law?’ She looked at him earnestly.
‘No. Not really. Sometimes I am. When I got Blackwell off, I was thrilled. Graves, I’m not so sure about. The exactness of the law says I must pay attention only to whether he is innocent or guilty of this count. I won’t punish him for this, if he’s only guilty of wanting to ruin most of the people I love, and turning Special Branch on its head.’
Her face reflected all his emotions. Now it was anxiety. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘I wish I were certain,’ he answered. ‘Just find out whose body it really is. If Graves killed her, whoever she is, I’d be perfectly happy to see him hanged, except that it may take a while because he’ll have to be tried for that person’s death, if Ebony is still alive. Maybe long enough to finish this damn book and publish it. I don’t know what I can do about that. Blackwell may have some idea.’
‘And your father?’
‘I wish he didn’t have to know.’
Daniel wished that questioning Sarah Graves could be avoided, but since it could not, he would rather do it himself than trust anyone else not to hurt her more than was absolutely unavoidable. Her mother was dead, so far as she knew, and it seemed inevitable that her father would be also. Her brother was brave and sensitive, and totally dependent on her.
Daniel chose to do it in the sitting room. It was not as formal as the withdrawing room, and as far as possible from the room in which she believed her mother had been killed. But whether it was Ebony, or not, certainly someone had been killed there, and almost worse than that, disfigured.
Miriam sat quietly, almost in the corner, and he knew she would not speak unless she judged it necessary.
He stood as Sarah came into the room. He could see by the way she held her head, and her stiff, straight shoulders, that she was afraid. The pallor of her face could have been grief, or emotional exhaustion. She barely glanced at Miriam.
‘Please sit down, Miss Graves.’ He gestured towards the chair opposite the one on which he had been sitting. ‘Miss fford Croft is here as a chaperone, so you do not need to have any of your own staff here, in case you wish to say something that you would rather keep private from them.’
She hesitated a moment, as if she might refuse. Then she obeyed, holding her hands in her lap, back still perfectly straight. No doubt she could walk with a book balanced on her head, and not let it fall. It was the classic exercise for a young lady’s deportment. He could remember Jemima doing it, under protest. But this was so far from anything Jemima had had to endure. How easy their lives were, compared to this!
Would it be kinder to be blunt? Not to stretch out the things he had to ask her, increasing her fear? How could he know the best approach? He knew nothing of her, except her obvious circumstances, and the fact that she sat opposite him and refused to avoid his glance.
He should not even be thinking of her feelings. He should be more practical, and perhaps show more courage. He should be looking for the most effective way to get her to tell him the truth.
‘Miss Graves, we looked at the body of your mother.’
Her eyes widened. ‘How? She is . . . buried!’
‘We dug her up . . . I’m sorry. She is not in her body any more. She is at peace, whole again . . . I think.’
For a moment, confusion was clear in her face. ‘You . . . think? Are you not sure of your own beliefs, Mr Pitt? Or are you questioning whether she was good enough . . . to go to any kind of heaven?’ Then there was nothing left in her eyes but anger.
He was taken aback. ‘No, Miss Graves. I am questioning whether the body was that of your mother.’
Sarah glanced at Miriam. ‘You dug up the wrong body?’ She did not need to say more; accusation was complete.
‘No!’ he swallowed. ‘No, we got the right grave, it was quite clearly marked.’
‘Thank you.’
He had to start again. But he was more determined. He had a new respect for her, even though it impeded his attempts to discover the truth. ‘The body was that of a woman who had died from a head injury, and her face and upper body had been burned, enough to disfigure her. I am not sure that it was your mother.’
‘I . . .’ Sarah began, then stopped.
‘Yes?’
‘Didn’t Mr Falthorne identify her, and in my mother’s bedroom? Dressed in her clothes, who else could it be?’
‘You were going to say that you did not see her?’ he asked. She must have been protecting Falthorne when she claimed to have identified the body. He would have respected her less had she not done so.
‘He . . . was saving me from that.’ She found it difficult to say.
Was that the thought that disturbed, or was she reluctant to lay the blame on Falthorne for what might have been a profound mistake? Or was Daniel chasing a ridiculous fantasy, and she did not dare to say so to him?
But the evidence suggested it was not Ebony Graves.
‘I don’t know,’ he answered her question. ‘Who else would call upon her? And it was not in her bedroom, it was her boudoir – a natural place to entertain a woman who knew her well. More private, a little more comfortable than the withdrawing room.’
She stiffened again. It was only the smallest of movements, but the last vestige of colour drained from her face. He looked at her hands; her knuckles were white. He was glad that Miriam was present, in case Sarah actually fainted.
He leaned forward a very little. ‘Miss Graves, if it was not your mother, and you keep silent and allow your father to be hanged for having killed her, you will be guilty of his death. I cannot believe you wish that, whatever the truth of the matter. Apart from the morality of it, who then will look after Arthur?’
She stared at him with something close to hatred, but she did not answer.
‘Who was she, and how did she die?’
She clenched her jaw tight, as though to prevent herself from letting the words course their way out of her mouth.
‘Did your father kill her?’ he persisted.
She closed her eyes and tipped her head a little downwards. Was that a denial?
‘Are you prepared to let him hang?’ he said again.
It was as if he had struck her.
He wanted to reach out and touch her. He even started to, and then realised how inappropriate it was. He barely knew her. And yet his pity for her was overwhelming.
‘Who was she?’ he repeated.
Her eyes filled with tears.
�
��Miss Graves, who was she?’
‘I’m not Miss Graves, I think.’ There was the edge of a smile on her lips, a bitter, self-mocking smile.
What did she mean? He was totally confused.
She saw his look and spoke almost gently. ‘Oh, Russell Graves is my father. I wish he were not. The woman on the carpet was Winifred Graves. His first wife. Or so she said. I believe her.’
‘What?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘He has recently inherited a title, of all things, and the money and estate that go with it. Isn’t that absurd?’ The contempt in her voice was scorching. ‘Winifred found out about it, from wherever she lives. I don’t know. She came to tell us that he never divorced her, so she is still entitled to a wife’s share of his good fortune. We are illegitimate, Arthur and I. And my mother has no marriage. So, she is a bigamous wife.’
He understood what that meant. He could see the injustice of it, and the disaster of it in her face. She had no rights, no position, and if Graves so chose, no home and no money.
But Graves also would be disgraced. Bigamy was a crime, punishable by imprisonment. He had cause to have killed her – Winifred. But so did Ebony – and Sarah, for that matter. Arthur had cause, but not the ability. Daniel thought for a fleeting moment he could have hit Winifred, in Ebony’s cause. A moment’s rage at the intolerable loss not so much to herself as to her children. The injustice of it would scald anyone.
‘Who killed Winifred?’ he said, recalling himself to the present. It could still have been Graves. Would Sarah lie? It would be so easy. ‘Was it your father?’
Would she tell him the truth? He might never know. Would she let Graves hang anyway?
Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. It was so minute a gesture, had he not been watching her so closely he would have missed it. She swayed a little. Miriam stood up, came silently over to Sarah, and put her arms round her, almost as if she were holding her up.
‘Who did?’ she said in almost a whisper.
Sarah leaned into her. ‘It was accidental,’ she said with her voice wavering. ‘She lunged at my mother, who defended herself, and Winifred slipped on the hearth and hit her head. If you know so much, you probably know that it was only one blow.’ The tears slipped down her cheeks, but her eyes were challenging again. She intended to fight both of them all the way, protecting her mother, and her brother.
