by Issy Brooke
“Mama,” said Edith, smiling almost nervously. “I do like the table decorations that Mrs Hobson remarked upon. Might I be allowed to try my hand at it tomorrow?”
Adelia snorted. “You hate anything to do with the finer womanly arts of household beautification. You are merely trying to redirect the conversation.”
“Yes,” said Edith. “And you taught me that steering a conversation, when in polite company, is a skill all women needed; and that if one felt on the receiving end of such steering, one ought to be too polite to mention it.” She tipped her chin up, confident that she had scored a point.
Theodore knew there was no way of winning a match, however, if one party did not play by the rules, and clearly Adelia had no intention of doing so. She pushed her plate to one side and indicated to the impassive butler that she wanted more wine. She met Theodore’s eyes as she took another sip. It was a challenge.
He sighed but decided to let the matter drop for the moment, and instead speak to her more privately later that evening. He had no wish for an audience.
In hindsight, that was a mistake.
He had hoped that people would not linger too late for drinks and card games. Most nights over the past week, they had either gone straight to their own rooms, or had but a perfunctory visit to the drawing room for half an hour of strained conversation and the occasional round of cards. The addition of Harriet Hobson, however, seemed to add a certain liveliness to the atmosphere and Edith joined in with gusto. Together with Adelia, the three women clustered around the fireplace, making Theodore think of a trio of gaudy birds, clucking and chattering away.
Froude and Montgomery sat in deep leather armchairs a little distance away. Each seemed content to be sunk into their own silent thoughts. Pegsworth hovered by the door until Montgomery barked at him to “Sit down and be still, or leave; but stop wavering like a nervous debutante. You make us all feel uneasy.”
Theodore had parked himself in an armchair relatively near the fire. There was nothing for him to do but get drunk.
And so it was that by the time everyone staggered back to their respective rooms, a heavy despondency was hanging over everyone. It was that curious kind of flattening that one felt when one had drunk too much while in a morose state of mind, and Theodore felt particularly oppressed by it. He had one small corner of his rationality that was still convinced Adelia was innocent in all things, and he clung to it as he finally started the conversation he had been holding off all day. Now they were alone in their chambers and getting ready for bed at last.
He could not hold it in any longer.
“You never mentioned that Mr Froude once proposed to you.”
She was sitting by her dressing table, applying a cold cream to her face. He could see that she was flushed by the reflection in the mirror, but it was likely to be the alcohol in her system. She didn’t hesitate in her reply. “Oh, yes. That was way back, many years ago, but I am afraid I didn’t care for him one bit. I did tell you that we had met in London,” she added, a little defensively.
“Yes, you did. But I thought you might have said that you had been close enough for him to propose marriage.”
“We were not close. He may have felt as if he were pursuing me, but I barely noticed him. That is often the way in these matters. I can assure you I was above blame. Why?” She spun around on her padded stool. “Does it bother you, my love? He is not the only one who asked for my hand in marriage. I have turned down half a dozen men in my lifetime, and it is out of consideration to both you and them that I do not speak of it.”
“Thank you. I suppose that is to your credit.”
“Do you doubt me?” she insisted.
“No,” he said with complete honesty. “I do not. But...”
Her eyes were widening in horror. “But what, Theodore?”
“There is another matter in which you have not been entirely honest. Had you kept this one thing from me, I agree that you are blameless. But what of your brother, and the money?”
“I gave him a little for his new suit.” Abruptly she turned around, presenting her back to him. She reached for her hairbrush but her hair had already been brushed and rolled up for the night. She pulled at a few strands of her fringe.
He knew a distraction when he saw it, and it annoyed him. The brandy coursed through his system, colliding with the whisky. He said, “And the other times?”
“Other times?”
His heart began to hammer. “Yes. The times when you paid him to go away.”
“What? Who said that?”
“He admits it himself.”
“That I paid him to go away?”
“Not that exactly – he denies that – but he told me that you have been giving him money for a long time.”
“He is my brother.”
“And it is my money.”
She placed the hairbrush down on the table with a deliberate click which sounded loud like a gunshot in the tense room. She shifted around and faced him, her hands gripping the side of the stool. “Your money,” she stated flatly.
It was a fact. Of course it was. Everything that she had was only hers via him, at his discretion, at his sufferance. She had married before the great Married Women’s Property Act came into force. Her children benefited from the new rules but the act had no power in retrospect. When Adelia had married him, she had forfeited everything to her husband’s name and there was no going back on that.
He stared at her and she stared back. He had never brought the matter up before, because there had been no need to. He gave her access to some of his funds and trusted that she would not abuse the situation.
“I always assumed you would let me know the purposes for which you might use our money,” he said at last.
“Every detail? Every receipt? Every hatpin? Shall I go and fetch my account books? Would like you to pore over them, like I examine the housekeeper’s records every week?”
“No. Don’t be ridiculous. I only mean...”
“Ridiculous? Who is being ridiculous?” Her voice rose shrilly.
“Adelia, let us talk about this tomorrow when you are sober.”
“Me? I have seen what you have drunk this evening. You are half-cut too. How dare you suggest that...”
“Suggest what? What do you think I am suggesting, Adelia?”
“I don’t know,” she squealed, letting go of the stool to ball up her fists in frustration. “That I have lied to you?”
She said it out loud and it seemed to strike a blow across his face. His head spun as if there were another conversation happening on a different level, one that he could not quite hear. Her reaction was too much, but was that merely the effect of the drink? He had not expressed himself clearly, he knew. He tried again. “Listen, my dear. I trust you as I trust myself. I want only the best for you. I adore you, protect you and want to support you. But I cannot do that if you keep things from me. I am not talking about the little things, the hatpins and the like. But it seems to me that if even other people have noticed that you have been giving your brother lots of money, over a long period of time, then that’s something I ought to know about.”
“Well, perhaps you ought to pay more attention to your accounts and then you would have noticed,” she snapped at him.
“I will be examining them closely over the next few days,” he said, which he thought was an entirely reasonable thing to say.
Apparently it was not. “So you still have suspicions!”
“No, I did not say that.”
“Perhaps I have given him costly jewels or things to sell!”
“Have you?”
She went scarlet. “Yes,” she admitted.
“Jewellery that I have given you?”
“No, not gifts ... I am not sure. But what does it matter? You seem determined to make this into a problem.”
“The problem is the lack of honesty.” He was tired, and his eyes itched. She seemed unwilling to debate reasonably with him and he hated it. He was gro
wing very weary of the argument. He loathed irrational disagreements at the best of times. “We will discuss this tomorrow.”
“You decide when we discuss it? That’s how it is, isn’t it! I am beginning to see why our poor Edith is feeling so oppressed and stifled. You get to decide what we talk about, and when.” She rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily, tears in her eyes.
“Adelia, you are drunk! Go to bed!” he snapped at her crossly.
“Go to bed!” she parroted back at him.
He stood up and went towards her, intending to take her gently by the arms to steer her to the bed.
She slapped him, hard.
He stepped back.
He had never, ever been struck by a woman.
She stared at him in horror. Her mouth dropped open. “No. No, I...”
He didn’t know what to think or what to do. His vision blurred with betrayal.
He left, and he walked out into the cool dark night.
Twenty
Of course, as soon as Theodore had got thirty yards down the driveway, he regretted absolutely everything, realised he had been a colossal idiot, and knew that he had to turn around and go back inside. He stopped and looked up at the vast looming bulk of Thringley House. Squares of orange and yellow light ranged along the upper floors. A lamp flickered by the porch. Inside, his wife would be waiting for him to return, contrite and foolish.
It was that final thought which made him spin somewhat unsteadily on his heels and continue storming away from the house like a petulant child.
GREGORY IVERY WAS DUMBSTRUCK when he came downstairs the next morning. Theodore was sitting in the breakfast room, feeling jaded, hungover and very stupid. He had woken the butler when he’d arrived, an hour and a half after leaving Thringley House on foot, and been shown into a guest bedroom. While he’d slept in borrowed nightclothes, his shirt had been magically laundered and pressed, his shoes had been shined and his suit jacket brushed. Even so, he felt as if he were a crumpled mess.
He had slept the unsatisfying sleep of the drunkard, plagued by guilt and regret.
“My man told me this morning that you arrived in the middle of the night, but said it was not an emergency and that I was not to worry.” Gregory sat down and stared at Theodore while coffee was poured for them both. “What on earth is going on?”
“I argued with my wife and left,” Theodore said. There was no way of dressing it up to make him sound any better. “I had had rather too much to drunk and I have clearly reacted in a most unbecoming way. Now I find I am here and ...” He tailed off.
Gregory snorted with laughter but tried to compose himself. “Lord Calaway, I confess I do not know what to say.”
“Say as you find,” Theodore said glumly. “I am a fool. I am too old to be a fool like this. Which makes me even more of a fool.”
Gregory was still smiling but he shook his head. “You have been under almost intolerable pressure over the past week,” he said. “Many things have happened, not least the ultimate violation of your house. It is natural that you should react in curious ways, especially when strong drink is added to the unfortunate situation. Come, let us have breakfast if you are able to face food and if you wish, you can unburden yourself to me and perhaps the telling of it will help you make sense of things.”
Theodore was glad to accept.
INSPECTOR PRENDERGAST turned up at Ivery Manor just before midday, and he was furious, as Theodore had expected he would be. They met in a large, echoing drawing room which was unheated and horribly cold. It was all very well having an Italianate-style mansion but such architecture was designed for far warmer climes.
“What is all this about?” the inspector said, pacing around to stay warm. “Why are you here? My constable at the door said you threatened to come to blows if you were not allowed to pass.”
Theodore winced. “I have a vague recollection of strong words for which I can only apologise unreservedly.”
“Why did you flee in the night?”
Theodore noticed the lack of “my lord” and the utter absence of defence. “I did not flee,” he replied somewhat stiffly. “That implies ... weakness or cowardice.”
“It also implies guilt.”
“Yes, I have done things and said things that I regret. What has Lady Calaway told you?”
“That is between my lady and myself, sir. I am here to discover your side of the story.”
“But it is nothing to do with the investigation.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I am sure!” Theodore burst out. “It is a private matter between Lady Calaway and myself.”
“I speak to the servants, you know. And the policemen that are still in attendance at your house report to me. You must know that.”
“Of course I do.” Theodore frowned. “What are they telling you that I do not know about?”
“Certain facts of the case must remain private at this moment. But I do know there is tension regarding Mr Pegsworth.”
“You asked me to watch him.”
“I did. How do you expect to do that from here?”
“I will return to Thringley House today.”
“Will you?” Prendergast stopped walking around and he came to stand in front of Theodore. “If you do, I would insist that you remove yourself from all aspects of this investigation. I cannot have you compromising the case. You are too close, sir, and too emotional.”
Theodore had never been accused of a surfeit of emotion in his entire life. “I say,” he replied. “I object to that.”
“Object all you like, sir. But the matter will be at an end before the week is out, as long as you can restrain yourself. It might actually be better if you were to remain here.”
“Are you telling me to stay away from my own house? You cannot do that.”
“I cannot do that. I am merely making a very strong suggestion. But you will act as you see fit, I am sure.”
Theodore could only stare in horror as Prendergast stalked out of the room.
There were many things he could have said, of course. He could have reminded Prendergast that his promotion to inspector had been at Theodore’s own behest. He could have pointed out that there were enemies waiting in the wings, looking for any opportunity to bring Prendergast down. Without Theodore’s patronage in public, the Ingrams would set to work, for sure.
But such things would be beneath him and he remained mute, though it made his blood boil to do so. He began to realise that though he had helped to create Inspector Prendergast, it gave him absolutely no control over the man that Prendergast had become.
In a funny way, deep underneath his frustration, he was a little proud of him, too. Wasn’t the very greatest ambition of any teacher to make themselves of no further use to the student?
ADELIA BLINKED AND whimpered as the curtains in her room were drawn back. The November sun was pale and weak but hurt her eyes regardless. “Smith, how could you,” she whispered, burrowing under the bedclothes.
“It’s not Smith. It’s me. I sent Smith for her own breakfast,” said Harriet, far too loudly. It echoed in Adelia’s head. “You have some explaining to do, Adelia.”
“I cannot say a word. I need sleep. And a cup of tea.”
“You need a slap. And yes, then a cup of tea. Things are being brought up directly. I have been speaking to Edith, you know. And I know all about Alf.”
“I have been following your advice regarding Alf. And look where it has got me,” Adelia said bitterly, sitting up carefully. She clung to the sheets as the room tipped and spun for a moment.
“Don’t you dare for one moment to lay a scrap of blame at my door,” Harriet said. She sat with a heavy thump on the end of the bed, making it shudder and causing a wave of nausea to ripple again through Adelia.
“I can’t even remember why or how we argued. But he’s never, ever stormed off like that. I might have overstepped the mark perhaps.” She wondered if she had slapped him. She had certainly felt like she wanted t
o and she had a memory of it, but perhaps it was a dream. She hoped so. There was no excuse for violence of that kind and she cringed with shame. “Where do you think he went? He must be hiding in a guest bedroom now, but I am surprised he has not come back this morning.”
“He left.”
“The house?” Adelia quailed even further. What, oh what, had she done? It was unforgiveable.
“Yes, he has left the house. He had a fight with the constable at the front door, apparently, and stamped off into the night, on foot. I’ve heard through a maid who heard through a butcher’s boy who’s making his rounds that he went to Ivery Manor but that’s just a rumour.”
Adelia sagged against the pillows. “What a mess. I am worse than Edith.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Does everyone here know what’s happened?”
“I am sure they are talking of nothing else.”
“Don’t let word get to Mrs Ingram.”
“Servants will speak to servants. Even now, she is probably writing a victory speech to trot out at every salon and general gathering that she attends in the next few weeks. She might even take out a notice in the papers.”
Adelia groaned.
A maid tapped at the door and brought in a tray of food. Behind her came another maid wheeling a trolley of tea things. Adelia sighed, and set about slowly facing the day.
IT WAS WEDNESDAY. THE murder had happened just over one week previously. Inspector Prendergast was nowhere to be seen. A policeman stood by the front door, now so familiar a sight that he had become an almost-invisible part of the furniture of the house. Alfred Pegsworth remained in his room, clearly completely ostracised completely from any involvement in the business, though whether he had been formally excluded or he had simply removed himself, Adelia did not know. Mr Froude and Mr Montgomery continued to use Theodore’s study even in his absence, forging ahead with their plans. Edith requested that she be allowed to sit in one corner, ostensibly to “peruse papa’s books” and the men were far too polite to refuse.
