“I wanted to ask you for a Christmas present.”
“Why, I don’t know what I could give you. You’re one of those women who has everything. What could I buy you?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Not clothes or jewellery. Inspectors from Scotland Yard don’t make that kind of money.”
“No, it’s not that I want. I’ve always had those things. It’s something . . . very special.” Suddenly she looked down, avoiding his eyes, and he saw that she was twisting her fingers together. She was wearing mittens, but he could see that her hands were unsteady.
“Why, you’re troubled, Dora.”
“I’m . . . I don’t know how to say this to you . . . about what I want you to give me.”
“Why, Dora, you can ask anything of me. You know that by this time.”
Then Dora lifted her eyes and was still, and he was conscious of her gentle fullness. Her eyes were shadowy, and her breast softly rose and fell with her breathing. The pull of her presence served to strain Matthew Grant forward against his sense of propriety. “I’d give you the world if I had it, Dora. Just ask.”
“I want . . . I want you to ask me . . .” She paused and had trouble with the words. “To marry you.”
Matthew Grant could not have been more surprised than if the sun had fallen out of the sky. It was the desire of his heart to love this woman and to be with her the rest of his life, but he was a hard realist and knew that the daughters of aristocratic families did not marry policemen. For a moment he could not speak, wondering if he had heard her right, and then he saw the softness in her eyes and the tears gather there.
“Why, Dora, don’t cry,” he said. He reached out and brought her forward like a man reaching for something he is afraid he might lose. He saw the faint colour stain her cheeks, and she held him with a glance. And then something whirled rashly between them, swaying them together. He kissed her, and there was a sense of a wild sweetness and an immense shock that came to him. He knew that his whole life was changed at this moment out here in the snow with this woman. He lifted his head and said with triumph in his voice, “I’ll have to talk to your father.”
It was almost midnight by the time Serafina and Dylan arrived home from the performance. Dylan had purchased three tickets and given one of them to Givins so that he could get in out of the cold. After the performance they had gone to a restaurant to eat before coming home. When Givins had opened the door and helped Lady Serafina out of the carriage, he had put out his hand to Dylan, who took it at once.
“Thank you, sir. It was a wonderful, wonderful thing. I never ’eard such music.”
“Why, I’m glad you liked it, Albert.”
The two walked up the steps, and Dylan expected Serafina to go inside at once, but she paused and turned to say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There’s probably a name for it, but I just find myself, somehow—I don’t know—unsatisfied, I suppose.” She turned to him, and the moon cast its skeins inside the observatory, which seemed to coat her face with silver. “I suppose I want more than science. That was always enough for me before, but it isn’t now.”
Dylan was standing so close he could hear the sound of her breathing. “What is it you want, I mean, as a woman?”
“I want to give David a good start in life.”
“That’s for him, and you’re doing that. But what’s for you?”
Serafina was confused, and in the silence and the closeness of that room she heard herself say something she had not intended to. “I’m envious of women who have good marriages.”
“Are you now?”
“Yes. I need someone to talk to. There are people all around me. My parents have a good marriage. They can tell each other anything. I guess I need someone too.”
“Someone to love?”
“I don’t know about that. I had a wretched marriage. You know about that, Dylan. It scarred me deeply. I—” She was going to say something but changed her mind. “It was not a good marriage.”
“Well, I know what I would do.” Dylan stepped forward and put his hands on her upper arms. She felt the strength of his hands, and looking up she saw a slight smile on his face. “If you weren’t the Viscountess Serafina Trent, but were just—oh, say Sara Newton, a cook maybe—I’d know what to do then.”
His imagination had always intrigued Serafina. “What would you do if I were Sara Newton, cook?”
“I’d do—this.” He pulled her forward and kissed her, and for a moment she resisted. And then, with hesitation, she lifted her arms and put them around his neck. At that moment, to Dylan Tremayne, it was like falling into softness, through layer and layer of softness, and the feeling of it was a goodness without shame. And then he stepped back, and he heard her let out a small sigh as she reached up and brushed her fingertips across his lips. She started to speak but found she could not, for there was thickness and a fullness in her throat, and tears burned in her eyes. Suddenly she leaned forward and put her head on his chest, and then her shoulders began to shake. She had not cried like this since she was a small child, and she was horrified at herself.
Dylan simply put his arms around her, saying nothing. He held her close and put his cheek against the top of her head and smelled the fragrance of her hair.
Finally Serafina, who had been stirred by the moment, looked at him and whispered, “Sometimes, Dylan, at times like this, I wish I were plain Sara Newton, cook.” She turned then and left, and he followed her, knowing that somehow they had stepped over a line and could never be to each other what they had been all this time in the past.
TWENTY-TWO
Sergeant Sandy Kenzie met Matthew Grant as the inspector came through the door to the outer office. Kenzie was a small man with a spare frame and the echoes of old Scotland in his voice. He reached up, stroked his mustache nervously, and said, “How are you today, sir?”
Grant took off his coat, hung it on the hook fastened into the wall, removed his hat, and then turned to face the sergeant. “I’m fine, Sandy.”
“You look tired, sir.”
“Well, I could use a bit of rest. I feel like a mouse in one of those cages where they run around and around and never get anywhere.”
Kenzie clicked his tongue against his teeth and said with a voice touched with sympathy, “It’s not going well, sir, I take it.”
“It’s not going at all, I’m afraid. All we know for sure is that there was a murder done, but as far as evidence, there just really isn’t any.”
“I’m sure you’ve done your best, sir.”
Grant started to go to his desk, but something about Kenzie’s attitude stopped him. “What is it, Sandy? Are you upset about something?”
“Not me, no, sir. I’m vurry well, but the Superintendent, he’s been in three times asking when you were going to come in and give him a report.”
“I got the messages you sent, but I was waiting until there was something to report.” A heaviness seemed to descend upon Grant, and he said, “I suppose he’s upset.”
Sandy snorted and shook his head. “Upset’s not the word, sir. He’s frothing at the mouth, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Well, he’ll just have to froth, I suppose.”
“He—he wants to see you, sir. He left word with me that as soon as you came in, you should give him his report.”
“I could write it on the back of a postage stamp,” Grant said bitterly. He stood still for a moment, a sturdy man of slightly above average height. His hazel eyes were usually attentive, but now his lids were drooping with fatigue. “All right. I suppose I may as well go in and get it over with.”
“I’m vurry sorry you have to put up with all this, Inspector. It’s a shame. I’ve wished a hundred times—” Sandy broke off and said, “Well, you know what I wish. I think a great mistake was made, and the Yard will pay for it.”
Grant understood very well what Kenzie meant. He himself had been bitterly disappointed when Edsel Fenton had been appointed to succeed Superintendent Winters. H
e had kept his disappointments to himself and determined to do no complaining, and now he tried to smile. “Well, that’s the way the world wags, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I’d best go see him, I suppose.” Turning, he left the office, walked down the hall, and stepped inside the door marked Supt. Edsel Fenton. A sergeant sat at the desk, and as Grant came in he looked up and said, “Good afternoon, Inspector.”
“I understand the superintendent wishes to see me.” He saw a nervousness in the sergeant and said, “Don’t worry about it, Sergeant.”
“He’s not in a very good humour, sir, I’m sorry to say. You can go right in. He doesn’t have anybody with him.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.” Matthew spread his shoulders, walked toward the door, and, taking a deep breath, opened it, stepping inside. He put his eyes at once on Fenton, who was sitting at his desk, which was covered with paper. His head came up, and his eyes narrowed. “So,” he snapped, “you’ve finally decided to come and let me know what’s going on!”
“I’m sorry, Superintendent, I was hoping to find some information that would please you.”
“Well, I take it you haven’t!”
“No, sir, not really.”
Fenton’s face was flushed and he shook his head, resembling nothing so much as a bulldog. “You’ve been on the case for a long while now, and you haven’t turned up a single solitary clue?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We know that there was poison in the wine bottle. We know that the victim sampled it before taking some up to Lord Darby. But anyone in the house could have poisoned the wine . . . The cook did tell me that she once saw Crinshaw do something unusual.”
“Do what? Be specific, Grant!”
“She saw him fix the potion and drink it off. He didn’t know she saw him, and she never told him about it. But it shows potential for a pattern. Perhaps he sampled Lord Darby’s potion as a habit.”
“Well, that doesn’t help very much, does it?” Fenton shot a defiant look at Grant, then said loudly, “I’ve decided to arrest Trevor Hayden.”
Grant shifted uneasily then settled back on his heels. “I think,” he said distinctly, “that would be a great mistake, sir.”
“Don’t be a fool, Grant!” Fenton suddenly rose to his feet. He was a corpulent man, overweight, and Grant could see a vein throbbing in his forehead. Grant had often noticed that when Fenton became upset the vein did exactly that. Fenton raised his voice now until it was almost a shout. “You’ve made a miserable botch of the whole job, Grant!”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You’re sorry! Well, that helps a lot, doesn’t it?” Fenton leaned forward and pounded the desk with his fists. He was shouting now, his voice high-pitched and almost wild. “You’ve got to do better than this, Grant! The papers are crucifying us! I’ve given you plenty of time, and you haven’t done a thing!”
Grant tried to defend himself. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able—”
“You haven’t been able! My sentiments exactly—and that’s why I’m taking you off the case. It’s obviously too much for you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, sir, and I wish you wouldn’t arrest Trevor Hayden. He’s too shrewd a lad to do a thing like this, knowing he’d be the prime suspect.”
“You’re off the case, Grant—and that’s final! I’m going to take it over myself.” Fenton began to pace the floor, shouting at the top of his lungs. He reached the office wall, doubled up his fist, and struck it. Then he turned and said, “I’ll get to the bottom of this! Now, if you don’t watch yourself, Grant, you’ll go back to being a mere policeman. I’m going to—”
Grant was watching the superintendent carefully, his mood plummeting, for he knew Fenton had been looking for such an opportunity as this. Suddenly he saw that Fenton’s mouth was opening and closing rapidly, and then Fenton’s eyes protruded as he gasped and clutched at his chest.
“Superintendent, are you all right?” Grant stepped forward and saw that Fenton seemed unable to breathe. He put his hand on the man’s arm. “Come and sit down, sir.”
“I . . . my chest. It’s . . .”
Grant seized Fenton’s arm and started to lead him to the chair, when suddenly Fenton let out a strange cry and his legs collapsed. He fell on the floor, still clutching his chest. “Doctor! Get a—” He could not even finish the sentence. His eyes rolled up, and his feet kicked twice, and then, alarmingly, he drew his legs up and was gasping, rapidly drawing in shallow breaths.
Grant jumped to his feet and ran to the door. “Sergeant, the superintendent is ill. Get a doctor here immediately.”
“Yes, sir!”
Grant turned and dashed back into the room. He knelt down beside the superintendent and saw that the usually ruddy face of Fenton was now pale, and that he was gasping, and his lips were turning blue. Grant felt absolutely helpless and sat waiting for the doctor to come. Several times he spoke to Fenton, but Fenton never answered. And finally, Fenton gave a hoarse cry and suddenly went limp.
“Superintendent! Are you all right?”
But Superintendent Fenton was not all right. He lay in that particularly relaxed fashion that the recently dead have, and looking down at him, Grant knew the doctor could do nothing when he came.
He rose to his feet and stood looking down at the still figure. He murmured aloud, “Poor man!” He had endured a great deal of humiliation from Fenton, but despite that, Grant felt a gush of compassion for him. He murmured as he looked down at the pale face, “When you got up this morning, you had no idea you would never see the sun rise again!”
Both Serafina and Dylan had returned to Lord Darby’s home. They had agreed that as unlikely as it might be, the murderer might strike again. It was always possible, and Serafina said as they sat together in the kitchen sharing a pot of tea, “I’m not happy with the way things are going.”
“If you are having my opinion, it seems to me that they’re not going at all,” Dylan murmured. He turned the cup around in his hand, studied the contents, and then drank it off. “I don’t know where to go with this. As a detective, I have nothing to buy a stamp for!”
“The police don’t know either.”
The two sat there sipping tea and were surprised to see Grant enter the room. He had a strange look on his face and sat down after greeting them. He said nothing, and both Serafina and Dylan watched him with some surprise. Finally Dylan rose, got a cup, and filled it for him. “That’s freshly made, Matthew. Can you tell us what’s been happening?”
Both of them saw that Grant was troubled—or perhaps just perplexed. He sipped the tea, put the cup down, then looked up at them. “Superintendent Fenton is dead.”
“Dead!” Dylan exclaimed. “What happened?”
“It was a violent heart attack. He’d been having heart problems for some time, and he paid no attention to his doctor’s orders. I was with him when it happened.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. He wasn’t a very pleasant man,” Serafina said, “but I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
Dylan expressed somewhat the same feelings. He knew the superintendent only slightly and had not been impressed. “Well, who will be in charge?”
“I will be, at least for a while. I’ve been appointed acting superintendent.”
“Why, devil throw smoke!” Dylan exclaimed, his face aglow with a wide smile. “You deserve it.”
“I hope they’ll make it permanent,” Serafina said. “Surely they will this time.”
On the way to the Darby estate, Matthew had been thinking about the case and about his new position. “If we don’t break this case soon, I may be thrown out on my ear. The public is pretty demanding.”
“Right you! If we could solve this case, I would be a happy fellow,” Dylan said. He would have said more, but he paused, for Trevor had walked into the room. He was wearing a pair of brown trousers and a waistcoat against the cold.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.�
��
“That’s all right, Trevor. Come in,” Serafina said. “We have some rather sad news.”
Instantly Trevor looked behind him. “What’s the matter now?” he demanded nervously.
Grant spoke up at once. “Superintendent Fenton died earlier today of a heart attack. I’ll be in charge of the case now.”
Trevor said nothing, but the three saw that he was nervous. “I suppose that I’m the prime suspect.”
“Now don’t be foolish, Trevor. You wouldn’t be vicious enough to kill anyone,” Serafina said at once.
“Nothing has been said from here about that,” Dylan said quickly, “and you’re a wise man. You’d realize that you’d be the prime suspect.”
“Which I am,” Trevor said.
“Not to me,” Grant said. “I agree with Lady Trent and Dylan. Whoever did this, it wasn’t you.”
Trevor Hayden straightened up and looked as if a load had been removed from his back. “’Good to ’ear you say that. I’ve been worried about it. I . . . I was about to get meself out of ’ere—go back to being a petty thief again.”
The door opened again as Trevor was speaking, and Lady Leona came in. Matthew turned to her at once and spoke. “Good afternoon, Lady Leona.”
“Inspector, are you back to ask more questions?”
“It’s not Inspector now, Lady Leona,” Serafina said. “Mr. Grant is now acting superintendent.”
“Oh, is that important?”
“Well, it is to me.” Matthew smiled slightly.
Leona stood there for a moment, and Serafina asked, “Would you like some tea?”
Lady Leona did not answer. She seemed to have fallen into some kind of mood. Her eyes were usually sharp, but at this moment they were wide and seemed glazed. She turned toward Trevor and said, “Come along, Leslie.”
“My name is not Leslie,” Trevor protested.
Lady Leona paid him no attention. She took his arm and said, “We have things to talk over, my dear.”
A Conspiracy of Ravens Page 26
