Sophie set Tatiana gently down on the carpet, then lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. She’d need a clear head and all her wits about her to see this through with Robin, right to the bitter end.
The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. She only hoped that would prove to be true.
***
Early August now, and the close of Parliament was less than a fortnight away. On arriving in London yesterday, Sophie had noticed that the crowds seemed sparser. According to Amy, the exodus to grouse moors or seaside villas was imminent. Many families had already left town, though the Sheridans were among those staying until the very end of the Season.
As were the Daventrys.
Sophie glanced at her companions, standing with her before the MP’s Belgrave Square townhouse. Robin, his face impassive, his bearing almost militarily erect; Inspector Taunton trying not to look intimidated by the massive facade of the Daventrys’ terraced townhouse; Inspector Seymore, of Scotland Yard, some ten years Taunton’s senior, doing rather a better job of that, although it was entirely possible that he wasn’t intimidated, after his years on the force; and finally, Thomas Sheridan, very quiet and grimmer than Sophie had ever seen him.
She’d been surprised at first by his insistence on joining them. But on further reflection, she couldn’t help but be grateful that he had. His presence might make a huge difference as to how willing Daventry was to speak to them and how much he might say. The man was a politician, after all, and no doubt accustomed to talking his way out of trouble.
The door finally opened to reveal a stern-faced butler, who appeared none too pleased when the inspectors identified themselves and asked to speak to Mr. Daventry—the police in general weren’t exactly welcome visitors at any home. But his face and demeanor changed the moment he recognized Thomas.
“Mr. Sheridan.”
Thomas nodded. “Good afternoon, Grimsby. Is Mr. Daventry at home?”
Grimsby hesitated a moment before replying. “He’s just returned from the House, sir.”
“It is of vital importance that we speak to him,” Thomas said, holding the butler’s gaze with his own. “Would you be so good as to show us up?”
“Very good, sir,” Grimsby conceded, and admitted them at last.
The interior of the townhouse was almost oppressively grand, Sophie found. Compared to Sheridan House, which wore its splendor lightly, even insouciantly, the Daventrys’ home was stiffly formal. And, to her critical eye, overly decorated—the most elaborate furnishings seemed to have been positioned to call attention to themselves: the huge ormolu mirror in the entrance hall, the marble-topped Baroque table on the first floor landing, and the Louis Quatorze chair just outside the drawing room, for example.
The drawing room showed a similar French influence, heavy on gilding and marquetry. Sophie wondered which of the Daventrys was the ardent Francophile. Lady Charlotte? Decor tended to be the provenance of the lady of the house. Perhaps Mr. Daventry was content to collect French mistresses, she reflected as she seated herself gingerly on a brocaded chair.
The men remained standing, Robin taking up a position behind Sophie’s chair. He had agreed to let the inspectors and Thomas take the lead when it came to questioning Daventry. But Sophie could feel him vibrating like a plucked string. She laid a hand over his, where it rested on the back of her chair, and studied the other three men.
Thomas was leaning against the sideboard, his posture nonchalant, his expression carefully neutral. All but his eyes, which had darkened to a muddy green—always a sign of disquiet, according to Amy. By contrast, Seymore looked calm to the point of stolidity, while Taunton appeared to be fidgeting slightly—he’d been eager to be put back on the case, Sophie remembered. He’d also done his best to clear the air earlier, informing Robin that he had never truly believed him guilty of Nathalie’s murder. Robin, for his part, had accepted the olive branch. All that mattered now was finding and apprehending the true killer.
They all looked toward the door at the sound of approaching footsteps. Seconds later, Guy Daventry—tall, blond, and even handsomer than in his photograph—strode into the room. His gaze, blue and direct, went to Sheridan first.
“Thomas—what brings you here today, old man?” he inquired, almost jovially.
“A matter of some urgency, Guy.” Sheridan nodded toward Seymore and Taunton. “These two inspectors will explain further.”
Daventry’s fair brows rose quizzically as he regarded the two policemen. “Inspectors? This must be serious indeed. What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
No sign of nerves, so far, Sophie observed. He appeared to have no inkling of why the police were here.
“Inspector Seymore, Scotland Yard,” the London detective introduced himself. “And this is Inspector Taunton, of the Newquay police,” he added, gesturing toward the younger man. “Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Daventry, but we wish to ask you a few questions.”
Daventry’s brows climbed higher. “I have no idea what this is about, Inspector, but naturally, I’ll—” He broke off abruptly, staring at Taunton with an arrested expression, then, “Newquay?” he repeated, a faint apprehension creeping into his tone. “From Cornwall?”
“That’s right, sir,” Taunton said evenly.
Daventry continued to eye him. “You’re quite far from your usual patch, Inspector.”
Taunton exchanged a glance with Seymore, who said, “Inspector Taunton requested Scotland Yard’s assistance in regard to a crime committed in Cornwall.”
Daventry gave an uneasy laugh. “So far away? I don’t see how I can help you there.”
“Did you not spend part of the Easter holidays in Cornwall?” Taunton asked. “During which you stayed at an establishment known as the Pendarvis Hotel?”
The MP flushed, slightly but noticeably—the curse of a fair complexion. “Yes, for a few days,” he conceded. “But that was months ago. I’ve hardly set foot out of London since the Season began. I certainly haven’t made any recent excursions to the West Country.”
“Be that as it may, sir,” Seymore resumed, “the police are in receipt of evidence suggesting that you might have some knowledge pertaining to this crime. The murder of one Nathalie Pendarvis.”
The name dropped into the quiet room with all the force of a bomb. Daventry’s face went the color of whey, and his eyes were suddenly all pupil, the blue swallowed up by black. He shook his head a little dazedly, lips parting as though he would speak, but no sound emerged.
“Guy.” Thomas strode over to stand at his side, laying a firm hand on his shoulder. “Before you say anything, anything at all, there’s someone else you should meet.” He motioned to Robin to come forward. “This is Mr. Robin Pendarvis, owner of the Pendarvis Hotel—and husband of the deceased.”
Robin stepped out from behind Sophie’s chair and directed a level look at his wife’s lover, who went even paler.
“Mr. Pendarvis.” He swallowed audibly. “Pray accept my condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you,” Robin returned. “Allow me to extend mine—on the loss of your son.”
“M-my son?” Daventry echoed feebly.
Still holding the other man’s gaze, Robin drew the packet of letters from inside his coat, and held them out so that the handwriting on the envelopes was plainly visible.
Daventry’s gaze dropped, along with the last vestiges of his pretense.
“I told Nathalie to burn those,” he said dully.
***
“We met six years ago on the Côte d’Azur.” Daventry stared down at his hands, twisting a gold signet ring on his little finger. Sophie could not see the design, but she suspected that it bore the crest of a bull’s head, ducally gorged.
The drawing room had fallen so silent one could hear the proverbial pin drop. Thomas had retreated to his former place by the sideboard, though Sophie could tell he was still listening intently, as were the two inspectors. And Robin, now standing before Daventry’s chair—strangely, he was t
he only person of whom the MP even seemed aware.
“I was smitten, instantly,” Daventry went on, still not looking at any of his hearers. “It was like a—madness, being in love with Nathalie. For a time I couldn’t get enough of her. And she… she seemed to feel the same.” A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at his mouth. “She begged my ring from me—just an old signet ring with my family crest. Nothing costly or valuable, but she swore she’d cherish it more than diamonds. And I could deny her nothing.”
“We found the ring among her possessions too,” Robin said colorlessly.
A spasm of pain crossed Daventry’s face; after a moment, he gave a tight nod and resumed, “I set her up in her own establishment in town. We did our best to be discreet, careful… but then we learned there was to be a child.” He looked up then, and Sophie could see the hunger in his eyes. “My wife and I hadn’t been able to… I wanted…” He paused, drawing a ragged breath before continuing. “Nathalie made me promise I’d support her once the baby was born. How could I not?
“We had a son, Cyril—named for my father. He wasn’t—wasn’t very strong, but I made sure there was enough money for medicine and a nursemaid. Nathalie had a daughter too,” Daventry added, with a tentative glance at Robin. “Yours, I suppose?”
Robin gave a curt nod. “I never knew about her.”
Daventry’s gaze fell. “Nathalie never spoke much of her marriage. I think, after Cyril, she hoped that I might… but it was quite impossible. I couldn’t promise her more than what we had. And in the end”—he shifted in his chair, avoiding everyone else’s eyes—“I had to break with her. Completely. I couldn’t risk the scandal to my career—or my marriage. Charlotte… I’m not proud of how I deceived my wife. I owe her and her family so much.”
He exhaled, looked up again. “Nathalie was distraught, angry—as she’d a right to be! She told me she meant to return to you, that you would do right by her and the children.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “God forgive me, I was relieved to hear it! But I couldn’t bear to lose all contact with Cyril. So I arranged to send money when I could, in exchange for news of him. But I swear, I never intended to see Nathalie again.
“When she wrote and told me Cyril had died…” Daventry’s eyes glistened with moisture. “My son. My only child. I had to go and see where he was buried, at least.” He met Robin’s eyes. “Thank you—for accepting him and treating him so well.”
Robin’s face was still, austere. “I thought of him as my son too.”
Daventry nodded, swallowing hard again. “What happened then, between Nathalie and myself—it wasn’t planned. She was crying, she clung to me—and then…” He shrugged, helplessly. “I told her, afterward, it must never happen again. That it was grief that had drawn us together. That I wished her well, but we must never see one another again. And we haven’t. I heard nothing from her, about her—until you came to my door today.”
Robin’s gaze sharpened. “Then you didn’t know about the baby?”
Daventry’s breath caught. “What baby?”
“According to the coroner, Nathalie was three months pregnant when she died.”
“Oh, God.” Daventry’s pallor was now tinged with grey.
“We found the draft of a letter hidden among her papers,” Robin continued. “Addressed to the father of her child, informing him of her pregnancy. I assumed she had written or was in the process of writing to you.”
Daventry stared at him, then shook his head, slowly, as if it took all his strength. “I didn’t know. I received no letter, no word at all…” Voice trailing off, he lowered his face into his hands, clearly struggling to absorb what he’d just been told.
An uneasy silence fell. Watching Daventry, Sophie found it hard to believe that he could feign such a reaction to this news, politician or no. The mingled shock and regret in his eyes had appeared genuine too. Because if he’d loved Cyril as much as he claimed… She felt her conviction about his guilt—not particularly deep-rooted in the first place—begin to waver, and wondered if Robin’s did as well.
“Mr. Daventry.” Seymore broke the silence at last. “Would you be so good as to tell us where you were on the night of this past July thirteenth?”
Daventry looked up, dazed and glassy-eyed. “The night of…” he echoed blankly, then his face sharpened into awareness as the implications of the question sank in. “Wait! Inspector, are you—are you suggesting that I killed Nathalie? The mother of my child?” His voice rose, incredulous and indignant. “How could you even think that?”
“The question, if you please, Mr. Daventry,” Seymore repeated inexorably.
The MP gripped the arms of his chairs, his hands white-knuckled as he fought for composure. “I did not kill Nathalie! I told you, I’ve spent almost the entire Season in London. And that night, July the thirteenth you said”—he paused, doubtless attempting to reconstruct the events of that evening—“I dined at the home of one of my fellow members, Mr. George Mallinson at 11 Portland Place! We did not part company until half-past ten. There were five other gentlemen present who can vouch for my attendance!” he added, almost triumphantly.
An ironclad alibi—or seemingly so. Sophie stole a glance at Robin, but she could not tell what he was feeling at this moment: relief that Cyril’s father had not killed Cyril’s mother, or disappointment that their search for the murderer appeared to have hit another dead end.
“What is the meaning of this?”
A new voice—rich, imperious, and distinctly displeased—spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention to the doorway where Lady Charlotte Daventry now stood.
“I should like to know why my drawing room appears to be full of strangers,” Lady Charlotte remarked, entering with her usual regality, Marianne a pale shadow behind her. “Two of whom”—she eyed the inspectors with cool disfavor—“appear to be policemen. Or so Grimsby informs me.” Her gaze swept the rest of the room, alighting not on her husband, Sophie observed with interest, but her cousin. “I trust a fuller explanation is forthcoming, Thomas?”
“The police will provide one, Charlotte,” he replied. “I suggest you listen to them.”
Lips pursed with displeasure, she turned back to the inspectors. “Well, gentlemen?”
Seymore introduced himself and Taunton at once. “Pardon the disturbance, Lady Charlotte,” he began, “but Inspector Taunton and I are investigating a crime that was committed a few weeks past, in Cornwall.”
“In Cornwall?” Lady Charlotte’s brows arched. “How extraordinary. But how can that possibly concern us?”
“We had reason to believe Mr. Daventry has some knowledge pertaining to the crime,” Seymore explained. “The murder of one Nathalie Pendarvis.”
Lady Charlotte paused in the act of pulling off her gloves, a marble calm settling over her strong features. “Indeed?” She regarded her husband with a notable absence of warmth. “Is that so, Guy?”
Daventry swallowed, nodded. “Charlotte, I have—something to tell you.”
She held up a hand. “If that—something involves one of your numerous indiscretions, you may spare your breath.” Her voice held a chilly detachment. “I am well aware of your infidelity, and have been for years. That wretched creature in Cornwall was your mistress, wasn’t she?”
Marianne uttered a faint squeak, while Daventry flinched as if his wife had struck him. “How—how could you know?” he husked.
Lady Charlotte lifted an aristocratic shoulder. “I would not be the first wife to employ a detective to investigate an adulterous husband. Or the first who chose to overlook that husband’s sins in private life to preserve his public reputation.” She stared down at him in wintry disdain. “I know that not only was Nathalie Pendarvis your mistress for more than a year, but she conceived an illegitimate child with you, whom you supported with our money until he recently died.”
The woman was uncanny, Sophie thought with a shiver. Terrifying, actually. And to judge from the expressions of everyone else in the room, she
wasn’t alone in her opinion. Even Thomas, a master of ironic detachment, looked unnerved by Lady Charlotte’s clinical recital, while Marianne appeared ready to faint—or weep at the very least.
Ashen-faced, Daventry moistened his lips. “What more do you know?” he asked finally.
“As much as I care to.” Lady Charlotte turned back to the policemen. “Is Mr. Daventry officially a suspect in this woman’s murder?”
“The police have taken an interest in Mr. Daventry for several reasons, Lady Charlotte,” Taunton explained. “For one thing, he matches the general description of Mrs. Pendarvis’s attacker, whom her maid identified as a tall, thin man—”
“England is full of tall, thin men,” Lady Charlotte interrupted. “Have you come all the way to London on the strength of that detail alone? How singular!”
Taunton flushed at the slight mockery in her tone. “For another,” he resumed, as if she hadn’t spoken, “Mr. Pendarvis,” he nodded toward Robin, “discovered correspondence of an intimate nature between his wife and Mr. Daventry, which he brought to our attention.”
“I see.” The mockery vanished as Lady Charlotte’s gaze alighted upon Robin. “Mr. Pendarvis—my condolences on your loss.” Her tone was a model of perfunctory politeness. “But as you have perhaps been made aware by now, Mr. Daventry has spent almost the entire Season in London, attending to parliamentary matters, as his fellow members can likely attest. Regardless of his past association with your wife, he certainly could not have made an excursion to Cornwall without my knowledge. While I hope for your sake that the person responsible for Mrs. Pendarvis’s murder is found, I suggest that you look elsewhere.”
A dismissal, if Sophie had ever heard one—faultlessly courteous, but clearly meant to intimidate and discourage.
Robin, however, was not so easily dismissed. “I believe that is for the police to decide, Lady Charlotte,” he returned, and Sophie had the sense of him planting his feet more firmly on the expensive Aubusson carpet.
Pamela Sherwood Page 35
