by Anne Perry
“I did enjoy the music.” Charlotte summoned her thoughts to the present. “Did you not think the pianist was excellent?”
“Very gifted,” Adah conceded with the slightest pucker between her brows. “Many of them are, in that field.”
Charlotte was lost. “I beg your pardon. Many of whom, Mrs. Harrimore?”
“Jews, of course,” Adah replied, her frown increasing as she looked at Charlotte more closely, surveying her strong face and rich, deep coloring, her hair like polished chestnut. “Not that I suppose that has anything to do with it,” she added inconsequentially.
Charlotte knew at least a smattering of history in the matter.
“It might have. Did we not in the past deny them most other occupations apart from medicine and the arts?”
“I don’t know what you mean—deny them!” Adah said sharply. “Would you have Jews into everything? It’s hard enough they are in all the finances of the nation, and I daresay the whole Empire, without being everywhere else as well. We know what they do in Europe.”
Devlin O’Neil smiled briefly, first at Adah, then at his father-in-law. He stood very close to his wife. “It’s as bad as the Irish, isn’t it?” he said cheerfully. “Let them in to build the railways, and now they’re all over the place. One is even obliged now and then to meet them socially. And into politics too, I’ll wager.”
“That is not at all the same thing,” Prosper Harrimore said, without even the faintest flicker of answering humor in his face. “The Irish are just like us, my dear boy. As you know perfectly well.”
“Oh indeed,” O’Neil agreed, putting his arm around Kathleen. “For some they even are us. Was not the great Iron Duke himself an Irishman?”
“Anglo-Irish,” Prosper corrected, this time the shadow of a smile on his narrow lips. “Like you. Not the same thing, Devlin.”
“Well, he certainly wasn’t a Jew,” Adah said decisively. “He was good blood, the best. One of the greatest leaders we ever had. We might all be speaking French now without him.” She shivered. “And eating obscenities out of the garden, and heaven only knows what else, with morals straight from Paris. And what goes on there is not fit to mention.”
Charlotte did not know what possessed her to say it, except perhaps a desire to break the careful veneer of good manners and reach some deeper emotion.
“Of course Mr. Disraeli was a Jew,” she said distinctly into the silence. “And he was one of the best prime ministers we ever had. Without him we would forever be having to sail all the way ’round the bottom of Africa to get to India or China, not to mention getting our tea coming back. Or opium.”
“I beg your pardon!” Adah’s eyebrows shot up and even Devlin O’Neil looked startled.
“Oh.” Charlotte recollected herself quickly. “I was thinking of various medicines for the relief of pain, and the treatment of certain illnesses, which I believe we fought China very effectively in order to obtain—in trade …”
Kathleen looked polite but confused.
“Perhaps if we hadn’t gone meddling in foreign places,” Adah said tartly, “then we would not have acquired their diseases either! A person is better off in the country in which God placed him in the first instance. Half the trouble in the world comes out of people being where they do not belong.”
“I believe Her Majesty was devoted to him,” Charlotte added inconsequentially.
“To whom?” Kathleen was totally lost.
“Mr. Disraeli, my dear,” O’Neil explained. “I think Miss Pitt is teasing us.”
“I never doubted they were clever.” Adah fixed Charlotte with a bright, brittle glance. “But that does not mean we wish to have them in our homes.” She gave a convulsive little shudder, very tiny, but of a revulsion so intense as to be akin to fear.
Kathleen looked at Charlotte with apology in her eyes.
“I am sorry, Miss Pitt. I am sure Grandmama did not mean that as distastefully as it may have seemed. All sorts of people are most welcome in our house, if they are friends—and I hope you will consider yourself a friend.”
“I should like to very much,” Charlotte said quickly, grasping the chance. “It is most generous of you to ask, especially in view of my remarks, which were in less than the best of judgment, I admit. I tend to speak from the heart, and not from the head. I so enjoyed the pianist I rushed to his defense where I am sure it was quite unnecessary.”
Kathleen smiled. “I do understand,” she said softly, so her grandmother would not hear. “He momentarily transformed me onto a higher plane, and made me think of all manner of noble things. That is not entirely the composer’s art, it is his also. He gave voice to the dreams.”
“How well you put it. I shall most certainly continue your acquaintance, if I may,” Charlotte said, with sincerity as well as the desire to know more of Kingsley Blaine, and what manner of man he had been. Had he truly intended to leave this seemingly warm and impulsive woman for Tamar Macaulay, and knowing the cost that would be to him? Or had he simply been weak, and in indulging his physical passions placed himself in a situation where he could not bring himself to leave either of them? How extraordinary that two such women should have loved him so deeply. He must have had a unique charm. It was growing increasingly important that she find a way to see him as objectively as possible, through the eyes of someone not so blinded by love. Perhaps if she visited the home of Kathleen O’Neil she might have a further opportunity to speak with Prosper Harrimore. His face was shrewd, guarded. Kingsley Blaine had been the father of his grandchild, but she imagined a man such as he was would not be easily hoodwinked by charm. His eyes on Devlin O’Neil suggested an ability to stand back, an affection not without judgment. He might be the key to a less emotional view, a perception that would see danger and weakness as well.
The pianist returned and the second half of the evening’s entertainment commenced, and for its duration Charlotte forgot all about Kingsley Blaine, his family, or the death of Samuel Stafford. The passionate, lyrical, universal voice of human experience took over and she allowed herself to be swept up by it and carried wherever it took her.
Afterwards the O’Neils and the Harrimores had become engaged in conversation with other acquaintances. Prosper was deep in discussion with a man who had the portentous air of a merchant banker, and Adah was listening with acute attention to a thin, elderly woman who was holding forth at some length and would brook no interruption. Once Charlotte caught Kathleen’s eye and smiled, receiving a flash of humor and understanding in return, but other than that solitary instance, Charlotte and Clio left without further encountering them.
Micah Drummond stood in his office staring out of the window down at the street where two men were haggling over something. It was latched against the blustery evening, and the rain beginning to splash now and then against the pane, so he could not hear their voices. It all seemed far away, divorced from any reality that mattered, and of less and less importance to him. He was forced to admit, the death of Samuel Stafford was rapidly becoming the same.
He should care. Stafford had been a good man, conscientious, honorable, diligent. And even if he had not, no decent person could condone murder. His brain told him he should be outraged, and in some distant part of his mind he was furious at the arrogance of it, the destruction of a life, and the pain. But on the surface where his concentration was, all he could care about intensely was Eleanor Byam. Everything he did had value to him only as it had reference to her. He could not remove from his mind the picture of her face in all its moods, the light and shadow as she laughed, and, when the sadness returned, the memory of pain, and her loneliness now that all the world she had known had disappeared and shrunk into the lodging house in Marylebone and the few tradesmen with whom she had dealings.
He ached to be able to give her more, and yet he was perfectly sure that what he felt was not pity; indeed he found the word offensive applied to her. She had far too much courage, too much dignity for him to dare such an intimate an
d intrusive feeling.
And yet he was aware with an ache of pain how her life had changed.
But the most powerful emotion in him was still the longing to be with her, to share his thoughts, his ideas, the experience of the things he loved. He imagined walking across a wide field with her by his side, the smell of the dawn wind off the sea, and the clouds piled and shredded in veils of light. The loveliness of it would fill him till he could scarcely contain it, and he would turn to her, and know she saw it with the same bursting heart that he did. And in that sharing all loneliness would vanish.
It flickered through his thoughts that if Adolphus Pryce felt this same consuming emotion for Juniper Stafford, and over years, perhaps it had driven from him all sense of proportion, and ultimately of morality. But it did not remain with him long, nor form itself into coherent ideas.
Instead of being with Eleanor, he was here, in Bow Street, waiting for reports on a murder he knew he would not solve. If it was solved at all, it would be by Pitt. It would be Pitt’s anger at waste and injustice, and Pitt’s insight, helped no doubt by Charlotte’s curiosity, which would find the answer, whether Drummond was there or not.
The job had completely lost its savor for Drummond, and he realized gloomily that he was in danger of making some stupid, unnecessary error, which would spoil his reputation and close his career with shame instead of honor.
He turned from the window and strode across to the hat stand, where he picked up his hat and cane, took his coat from the peg and went out into the corridor.
“Poulteney, I’m going out. Put the reports on my desk when they come. I’ll see them in the morning. If Inspector Pitt comes back, tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.”
“Yes sir. Will you be coming back tonight, sir?”
But Drummond was already striding away and he did not register the question.
Outside he walked the short length of Bow Street and around the corner into Drury Lane, where he caught a hansom. He gave the driver Eleanor’s address, and sat back trying to compose his mind and prepare what he was going to say. He changed the words a dozen times between Oxford Street and Baker Street, but when he got out at Milton Street and paid the driver it all sounded so much less than he meant. He even considered calling another cab and going away again. But if he did, the situation would not improve. He would be no more than delaying what was for him inevitable. He must ask her, and there was nothing to be altered or gained by delaying.
The same surly maid answered the door, and when he informed her he wished to see Mrs. Byam, she conducted him with ill grace through the hallway and back to Eleanor’s private door.
“Thank you,” he said briefly, and waited while she glared at him, then turned on her heel and went.
With suddenly beating heart and dry lips he raised the knocker and let it fall.
It was several moments before he heard her steps at the far side and the handle turn, and then it swung open. It was Eleanor herself; presumably her one maid was otherwise occupied. She looked surprised to see him. For an instant there was pure pleasure in her face, then within seconds it clouded with anxiety, almost a foreboding as she met his eyes. Perhaps she saw his emotions there, as naked as he felt, and it was not acceptable to her. Instantly he was embarrassed. He had said nothing at all yet, and already he had begun badly.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Drummond,” she began, then blushed at the clumsy formality of it. Surely neither of them needed to pretend quite so much? A little social grace to hide behind was good, but too much and it ceased to be a shield and became a mask.
“How kind of you to call,” she said in a rush. “Please come in. It’s turning a little cold, don’t you think? Is it too late to offer you tea?”
“No—thank you,” he accepted, and followed her in. “I mean, no, it is not too late. I should very much like a cup of tea.” The small room was exactly as he had remembered it, cramped, narrow windowed, shabby carpets worn in the center, mismatched furniture, only made special by her few small possessions kept from the house in Belgravia: a painting of the western isles, a small bronze figure of a horse, a few embroidered cushions.
She rang the bell and when her one maid appeared requested tea with a courtesy few women used towards servants. He could not remember whether it was her usual manner or something new since her wildly reduced circumstances. Either way, its graciousness warmed him ridiculously, and its necessity touched him to new sadness.
Eleanor stood by the mantel shelf, looking down at the fire, unlit. It was too early in the season to burn a fire all day, for one who had to be careful of the coal.
“I hope you are not concerned for me?” she said quietly. “It is not necessary, I assure you. My means are sufficient. And I really have no desire now to mix in society.” She looked at him suddenly, her eyes very serious.
“I did not come out of any anxiety for you,” he replied, meeting her gaze.
She blushed, the color rising up her cheeks in a dark tide.
Again he felt exposed. He knew his emotions were in his face, and he had no idea how to hide them.
“How is your case progressing?” she asked quickly. “Are you doing any better?”
She had changed the subject that was unspoken between them, and yet as obvious as if everything had been heard in words. He resented it, and yet he was also grateful.
“No, I think we really know no more than last time I was here,” he replied ruefully. “Pitt is determined it is not the wife or her lover, but I think he is wrong. There really is no evidence either way.”
“Why do you think it is them?” she asked, sitting down at last, and permitting him to do so as well.
“Tragic as it is, it is still the most likely,” he answered. “The only other alternative seems to be to do with the Farriers’ Lane case. And that was closed five years ago. Eleanor …”
She looked up, waiting, her breath indrawn as if she too were about to speak.
“Eleanor, I really don’t care about the case—or any other case especially. It has become less and less important to me lately …”
“I’m sorry—but I expect you will get over it. We all experience a touch of ennui occasionally. Familiar things become tedious for a while. Maybe you need a break from London? Have you thought of going away for a few days? Even a week or two, perhaps?”
All sorts of answers came to his mind. He could not leave Bow Street until this case was resolved. The murder of a judge was too important. It would look as if he did not care, even though there was nothing he could do that Pitt would not do better. He did not wish to inflict his restlessness on his daughters, who would expect him to join their family life. A fortnight with either of his sons-in-law would be far from restful, and he hated being in someone’s house when he had neither a true guest’s status nor a resident’s independence. He would be bored and lonely staying in a hotel, and long walks in the autumn solitude of the hills would leave his problem untouched.
Instead he spoke the simple truth.
“My feeling has nothing to do with London, or the death of Judge Stafford. It has simply sharpened my knowledge of what I must do.”
There was a flicker of fear in her face, which might have meant anything. With a cold hollow in his stomach he plowed on, dreading her response, and yet determined now not to shirk the issue. He was capable of more pain than he had believed, but he was not a coward.
She was waiting, accepting now that she could not dissuade him.
“I must acknowledge that my happiness lies with you.” He could feel the blood hot in his cheeks. “And ask you if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Almost before he had finished the denial was in her face, the misery in her eyes.
“It would be an honor, Micah. But you must know I cannot.”
“Why not?” He heard his voice and hated himself for his lack of dignity, his childishness, as if arguing could make a difference. Why was he vain enough to have imagined that her gratitude, her innate kindness
was anything akin to love?
“You know the answer to that.” Her voice was low and full of pain. Her face had the baffled look of one who has been struck unexpectedly.
“You do not care for me.” He forced the words out, preferring to say them himself so he would not hear them on her lips.
She looked down at the floor.
“Yes, I do,” she said very quietly, less than a smile touching her mouth, merely a softness. “I care for you very much—far too much to allow you to marry a woman who is socially such an outcast that alliance with her would ruin you.”
He drew in his breath to argue.
She heard him, and looked up quickly.
“Yes, it would. The scandal surrounding Sholto will never be forgotten. I am inextricably tied to it, and I always will be. I was his wife. There will always be people who remember that.”
“I don’t—” he began.
“Hush, my dear,” she interrupted him. “It is very noble of you to say that you do not care about society, but you have to. How could you hold the position you do, commanding the investigation into delicate cases where political discretion is needed, and immense tact, scandals that involve our greatest families, if your own wife had been so closely tied to the very worst of them?” Her eyes were intense. “I know very little of the police, but I can see that much. I am sensible of your honor, that you would not withdraw an offer once made, no matter what your greater wisdom might tell you, but please—we have been friends. Let us at least keep honesty between us. It would ruin you, and I cannot let that happen.”
Again he wanted to speak, to argue, but he knew she was right. He could never continue in his position if he were married to Eleanor Byam. Some scandals were forgotten, but that one would not be—not in ten years, not in twenty. The absurdity was that if he were to keep her as his mistress there would be whispers, a little laughter, perhaps a good deal of envy. She was a beautiful woman, but their affair would be largely ignored. Whereas if he did what was immeasurably more honorable, and married her, he would be distrusted and eventually shunned.
