by Anne Perry
She shivered. “Which is pretty horrible—and has not the remotest sort of humor about any part of it. Isn’t it silly how we have this quite offensive desire to laugh at all the worst and most tragic things? The police have already been around asking all sorts of questions. It was dreadful—sort of unreal, like being inside a magic lantern show, except that of course they don’t have stories like that.”
“And they haven’t come to any conclusions?” Hester went on relentlessly, but how else could she be of any help? They did not need pity; anyone could give them that.
“No.” Damaris looked grim. “It seems several of us would have had the opportunity, and both Sabella and Alex had obviously quarreled with him recently. Others might have. I don’t know.” Then suddenly she stood up and smiled with forced gaiety.
“Let us go in to tea. Mama will be angry if we are late, and that would spoil it all.”
Hester obeyed willingly. Apart from the fact that she thought they had exhausted the subject of the dinner party, at least for the time being, she was most interested in meeting Edith’s parents, and indeed she was also ready for tea.
Edith uncurled herself, straightening her skirts, and followed them downstairs, through the big hall and into the main withdrawing room, where tea was to be served. It was a magnificent room. Hester had only a moment in which to appreciate it, since her interest, as well as her manners, required she give her attention to the occupants. She saw brocaded walls with gilt-framed pictures, an ornate ceiling, exquisitely draped curtains in claret-colored velvet with gold sashes, and a darker patterned carpet. She caught sight of two tall bronzes in highly ornate Renaissance style, and had a dim idea of terra-cotta ornaments near the mantel.
Colonel Randolf Carlyon was sitting totally relaxed, almost like a man asleep, in one of the great armchairs. He was a big man gone slack with age, his ruddy-skinned face partially concealed by white mustache and side whiskers, his pale blue eyes tired. He made an attempt to stand as they came in, but the gesture died before he was on his feet, a half bow sufficing to satisfy etiquette.
Felicia Carlyon was as different as was imaginable. She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband, no more than her mid-sixties, and although her face showed a certain strain, a tightness about the mouth and shadows around the large, deep-set eyes, there was nothing in the least passive or defeated about her. She stood in front of the walnut table on which tea was laid, her body still slender and rigidly upright with a deportment many a younger woman would have envied. Naturally she was wearing black in mourning for her son, but it was handsome, vivid black, well decorated with jet beading and trimmed with black velvet braid. Her black lace cap was similarly fashionable.
She did not move when they came in, but her glance went straight to Hester, and Hester was intensely aware of the force of her character.
“Good afternoon, Miss Latterly,” Felicia said graciously, but without warmth. She reserved her judgment of people; her regard had to be earned. “How pleasant of you to come. Edith has spoken most kindly of you.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carlyon,” Hester replied equally formally. “It is gracious of you to receive me. May I offer you my deepest sympathies for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Felicia’s complete composure and the brevity with which she accepted made it tactless to add anything further. Obviously she did not wish to discuss the subject; it was deeply personal, and she did not share her emotions with anyone. “I am pleased you will take tea with us. Please be comfortable.” She did not move her body, but the invitation was implicit.
Hester thanked her again and sat, not in the least comfortably, on the dark red sofa farthest from the fire. Edith and Damaris both seated themselves and introductions were completed, Randolf Carlyon contributing only what was required of him for civility.
They spoke of the merest trivialities until the maid came with the last of the dishes required for tea, paper-thin sandwiches of cucumber, watercress and cream cheese, and finely chopped egg. There were also French pastries and cake with cream and jam. Hester looked at it with great appreciation, and wished it were an occasion on which it would be acceptable to eat heartily, but knew unquestionably that it was not.
When tea had been poured and passed Felicia looked at her with polite enquiry.
“Edith tells me you have traveled considerably, Miss Latterly. Have you been to Italy? It is a country I should have liked to visit. Unfortunately at the time when it would have been suitable for me, we were at war, and such things were impossible. Did you enjoy it?”
Hester wondered for a frantic moment what on earth Edith could have said, but she dared not look at her now, and there was no evading an answer to Felicia Carlyon. But she must protect Edith from having appeared to speak untruthfully.
“Perhaps I was not clear enough in my conversation with Edith.” She forced a slight smile. She felt like adding “ma’am,” as if she were speaking to a duchess, which was absurd. This woman was socially no better than herself—or at least than her parents. “I regret my traveling was in the course of war, and anything but educational in the great arts of Italy. Although I did put in to port there briefly.”
“Indeed?” Felicia’s arched eyebrows rose, but it would be immeasurably beneath her to allow her good manners to be diverted. “Did war oblige you to leave your home, Miss Latterly? Regrettably we seem to have trouble in so many parts of the Empire at the moment. And they speak of unrest in India as well, although I have no idea whether that is serious or not.”
Hester hesitated between equivocation and the truth, and decided truth would be safer, in the long run. Felicia Carlyon was not a woman to overlook an inconsistency or minor contradiction.
“No, I was in the Crimea, with Miss Nightingale.” That magic name was sufficient to impress most people, and it was the best reference she had both as to character and worth.
“Good gracious,” Felicia said, sipping her tea delicately.
“Extraordinary!” Randolf blew out through his whiskers.
“I think it is fascinating.” Edith spoke for the first time since coming into the withdrawing room. “A most worthwhile thing to do with one’s life.”
“Traveling with Miss Nightingale is hardly a lifetime occupation, Edith,” Felicia said coolly. “An adventure, perhaps, but of short duration.”
“Inspired by noble motives, no doubt,” Randolf added. “But extraordinary, and not entirely suitable for a—a—” He stopped.
Hester knew what he had been going to say; she had met the attitude many times before, especially in older soldiers. It was not suitable for gentlewomen. Females who followed the army were either enlisted men’s wives, laundresses, servants, or whores. Except the most senior officers’ ladies, of course, but that was quite different. They knew Hester was not married.
“Nursing has improved immensely in the last few years,” she said with a smile. “It is now a profession.”
“Not for women,” Felicia said flatly. “Although I am sure your work was very noble, and all England admires it. What are you doing now you are home again?”
Hester heard Edith’s indrawn breath and saw Damaris swiftly lower her eyes to her plate.
“I am caring for a retired military gentleman who has broken his leg quite severely,” Hester answered, forcing herself to see the humor of the situation rather than the offense. “He requires someone more skilled in caring for the injured than a housemaid.”
“Very commendable,” Felicia said with a slight nod, sipping at her tea again.
Hester knew implicitly that what she did not add was that it was excellent only for women who were obliged to support themselves and were beyond a certain age when they might reasonably hope for marriage. She would never countenance her own daughters descending to such a pass, as long as there was a roof over their heads and a single garment to put on their backs.
Hester made her smile even sweeter.
“Thank you, Mrs. Carlyon. It is most gratifying to be of use
to someone, and Major Tiplady is a gentleman of good family and high reputation.”
“Tiplady …” Randolf frowned. “Tiplady? Can’t say I ever heard of him. Where’d he serve, eh?”
“India.”
“Funny! Thaddeus, my son, you know, served in India for years. Outstanding man—a general, you know. Sikh Wars—’45 to ’46, then again in ’49. Was in the Opium Wars in China in ’39 as well. Very fine man! Everyone says so. Very fine indeed, if I do say so. Son any man would be proud of. Never heard him mention anyone called Tiplady.”
“Actually I believe Major Tiplady was sent to Afghanistan—the Afghan Wars of ’39 and ’42. He talks about it sometimes. It is most interesting.”
Randolf looked at her with mild reproof, as one would a precocious child.
“Nonsense, my dear Miss Latterly. There is no need to affect interest in military matters in order to be polite. My son has very recently died”—his face clouded—“most tragically. As no doubt you are aware from Edith, but we are used to bearing our loss with fortitude. You do not need to consider our feelings in such a way.”
Hester drew breath to say her interest had nothing to do with Thaddeus Carlyon and long predated her even having heard of him, then decided it would not be understood or believed, and would appear merely offensive.
She compromised.
“Stories of courage and endeavor are always interesting, Colonel Carlyon,” she said with a very direct stare at him. “I am extremely sorry for your loss, but I never for a moment considered affecting an interest or a respect I did not feel.”
He seemed caught off balance for a moment. His cheeks grew pinker and he blew out his breath sharply, but glancing sideways at Felicia, Hester saw a flicker of appreciation and something which might have been a dark, painful humor, but it was too brief for her to do more than wonder at it.
Before any reply was required, the door opened and a man came in. His manner seemed on the surface almost deferential, until one observed that actually he did not wait for any approval or acknowledgment; it was simply that there was no arrogance in him. Hester judged he was barely an inch taller than Damans, but still a good height for a man, of very average build if a little round-shouldered. His face was unremarkable, dark eyed, lips hidden by his mustache, features regular, except that there was an aura of good humor about him as though he held no inner anger and optimism were a part of his life.
Damaris looked up at him quickly, her expression lightening.
“Hallo, Pev. You look cold—have some tea.”
He touched her gently on the shoulder as he passed and sat down in the chair next to hers.
“Thank you,” he accepted, smiling across at Hester, waiting to be introduced.
“My husband,” Damaris said quickly. “Peverell Erskine. Pev, this is Hester Latterly, Edith’s friend, who nursed in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale.”
“How do you do, Miss Latterly.” He inclined his head, his face full of interest. “I hope you are not bored by endless people asking you to tell us about your experiences. We should still be obliged if you would do it for us.”
Felicia poured his tea and passed it. “Later, perhaps, if Miss Latterly should call again. Did you have a satisfactory day, Peverell?”
He took her rebuff without the least irritation, almost as if he had not noticed it. Hester would have felt patronized and retaliated. That would have been far less satisfying, and watching Peverell Erskine, she realized it with a little stab of surprise.
He took a cucumber sandwich and ate it with relish before replying.
“Yes thank you, Mama-in-law. I met a most interesting man who fought in the Maori Wars ten years ago.” He looked at Hester. “That is in New Zealand, you know? Yes, of course you do. They have the most marvelous birds there. Quite unique, and so beautiful.” His agreeable face was full of enthusiasm. “I love birds, Miss Latterly. Such a variety. Everything from a hummingbird no bigger than my little finger, which hovers in the air to suck the nectar from a flower, right up to an albatross, which flies the oceans of the earth, with a wingspan twice the height of a man.” His face was bright with the marvels he perceived, and in that instant Hester knew precisely why Damaris had remained in love with him.
She smiled back. “I will trade with you, Mr. Erskine,” she offered. “I will tell you everything I know about the Crimea and Miss Nightingale if you will tell me about what you know of birds.”
He laughed cheerfully. “What an excellent idea. But I assure you, I am simply an amateur.”
“By far the best. I should wish to listen for love of it, not in order to become learned.”
“Mr. Erskine is a lawyer, Miss Latterly,” Felicia said with distinct chill. Then she turned to her son-in-law. “Did you see Alexandra?”
His expression did not alter, and Hester wondered briefly if he had avoided telling her this immediately because she had been so curt in cutting him off. It would be a goodnatured and yet effective way of asserting himself so she did not overrule him completely.
“Yes I did.” He addressed no one in particular, and continued sipping his tea. “I saw her this morning. She is very distressed of course, but bearing it with courage and dignity.”
“I would expect that of any Carlyon,” Felicia said rather sharply. “You do not need to tell me that. I beg your pardon, Miss Latterly, but this is a family matter which cannot interest you. I wish to know her affairs, Peverell. Is everything in order? Does she have what she requires? I imagine Thaddeus left everything tidy and well arranged?”
“Well enough …”
Her eyebrows rose. “Well enough? What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean that I have taken care of the preliminaries, and so far there is nothing that cannot be satisfactorily dealt with, Mama-in-law.”
“I shall require to know more than that, at a suitable time.”
“Then you will have to ask Alexandra, because I cannot tell you,” he said with a bland and totally uncommunicative smile.
“Don’t be absurd! Of course you can.” Her large blue eyes were hard. “You are her solicitor; you must be aware of everything there is.”
“Certainly I am aware of it.” Peverell set down his cup and looked at her more directly. “But for precisely that reason I cannot discuss her affairs with anyone else.”
“He was my son, Peverell. Have you forgotten that?”
“Every man is someone’s son, Mama-in-law,” he said gently. “That does not invalidate his right to privacy, nor his widow’s.”
Felicia’s face was white. Randolf retreated farther back into his chair, as if he had not heard. Damaris sat motionless. Edith watched them all.
But Peverell was not disconcerted. He had obviously foreseen both the question and his answer to it. Her reaction could not have surprised him.
“I am sure Alexandra will discuss with you everything that is of family concern,” he went on as if nothing had happened.
“It is all of family concern, Peverell!” Felicia said with a tight, hard voice. “The police are involved. Ridiculous as that seems, someone in that wretched house killed Thaddeus. I assume it was Maxim Furnival. I never cared for him. I always thought he lacked self-control, in a finer sense. He paid far too much attention to Alexandra, and she had not the sense to discourage him! I sometimes thought he imagined himself in love with her—whatever that may mean to such a man.”
“I never saw him do anything undignified or hasty,” Damaris said quickly. “He was merely fond of her.”
“Be quiet, Damaris,” her mother ordered. “You do not know what you are talking about. I am referring to his nature, not his acts—until now, of course.”
“We don’t know that he has done anything now,” Edith joined in reasonably.
“He married that Warburton woman; that was a lapse of taste and judgment if ever I saw one,” Felicia snapped. “Emotional, uncontrolled.”
“Louisa?” Edith asked, looking at Damaris, who nodded.
“W
ell?” Felicia turned to Peverell. “What are the police doing? When are they going to arrest him?”
“I have no idea.”
Before she could respond the door opened and the butler came in looking extremely grave and not a little embarrassed, and carrying a note on a silver tray. He presented it not to Randolf but to Felicia. Possibly Randolf’s eyesight was no longer good.
“Miss Alexandra’s footman brought it, ma’am,” he said very quietly.
“Indeed.” She picked it up without speaking and read it through. The very last trace of color fled from her skin, leaving her rigid and waxy pale.
“There will be no reply,” she said huskily. “You may go.”
“Yes ma’am.” He departed obediently, closing the door behind him.
“The police have arrested Alexandra for the murder of Thaddeus,” Felicia said with a level, icily controlled voice, as soon as he was gone. “Apparently she has confessed.”
Damaris started to say something and choked on her words. Immediately Peverell put his hand over hers and held it hard.
Randolf stared uncomprehendingly, his eyes wide.
“No!” Edith protested. “That’s—that’s impossible! Not Alex!”
Felicia rose to her feet. “There is no purpose in denying it, Edith. Apparently it is so. She has admitted it.” She squared her shoulders. “Peverell, we would be obliged if you would take care of the matter. It seems she has taken leave of her senses, and in a fit of madness become homicidal. Perhaps it can be dealt with privately, since she does not contest the issue.”
Her voice gained confidence. “She can be put away in a suitable asylum. We shall have Cassian here, naturally, poor child. I shall fetch him myself. I imagine that will have to be done tonight. He cannot remain in that house without family.” She reached for the bell, then turned to Hester. “Miss Latterly, you have been privy to our family tragedy. You will surely appreciate that we are no longer in a position to entertain even the closest friends and sympathisers. Thank you for calling. Edith will show you to the door and bid you goodbye.”
