by Anne Perry
“Kitteridge!” Daniel hissed.
“What?” Kitteridge did not turn to look at him. He was trying to concentrate on the tedious testimony, feeling that there must be something in it, in all the mass of detail that surrounded the facts. He had already agreed with Daniel’s suggestion that Hillyer was keeping it going only because he was waiting for a final witness, or a piece of evidence yet to show up that would settle the case for him. Presumably, a damning one. But was the jury even listening anymore?
“I’m going to Alderney,” Daniel committed himself.
For a second, Kitteridge froze, and then he turned around in his seat. “You are…what?” he said incredulously.
“I’m going to Alderney,” Daniel repeated.
“When? And what on earth for?”
“Now. And I don’t know…not yet.” He stood up, felt the judge’s eyes on him, and bowed slightly. “Excuse me, Your Honor.” Then, to Kitteridge, “I’ll find you when I get back. Keep on going. It could matter.”
“Pitt!” Kitteridge scrambled to his feet. But Daniel was already striding up the aisle through the gallery, toward the door, and then out.
* * *
—
HE ARRIVED AT the fford Crofts’ and his heart sank. There was no taxi in sight and he felt ridiculously disappointed. Maybe this was somebody’s idea of a practical joke. Of course Miriam was not going to Alderney. How incredibly foolish he had been!
There was a very elegant-looking motorcar parked farther along the curb. It was clear red, like a post box, and had long, sweeping lines he loved on sight. It must be capable of amazing speed. It must mean she had visitors. He would go very quietly and never tell her about this. He would have to think of something to say to Kitteridge to explain it. Not that Kitteridge would ever let him forget it!
The front door of the house opened, and the butler came outside, onto the path. He looked around and saw Daniel. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Good of you to come, sir. Miss fford Croft will be out in just a moment. She had a late telephone call that is rather important. May I put your case in the car, sir?”
Wordlessly, Daniel gave it to him. Where was the driver? He hoped Miriam did not imagine he was going to drive it. He had intended to learn, but somehow other matters had always taken precedence. He had played around at it a little in Cambridge. A friend had a car and was keen to show it off, but it was nothing like this! And driving on the country roads in Cambridgeshire was another world from driving in London! There were few other cars on the road, but there were horses, wagons, drays, omnibuses, and who knew what else?
The front door opened again and Miriam came striding out. She was dressed in a shirt and what looked like a riding skirt, and she carried a tailored jacket in one hand. Her face lit up when she saw Daniel, and she increased her pace before stopping beside him. “You could come! I’m so pleased.” She took a breath. “It is always so much better to have another view of something. Binocular vision, so to speak. Are we ready to go?”
“Yes…” What else could he say? Not whether he was relieved, or terrified, or both.
“Excellent.” She indicated the passenger seat of the red car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She thanked the butler, who wished them both a successful journey.
“I have learned a little bit more about May Trelawny,” Miriam said, as soon as the butler had cranked the car, returned the handle into the place it was stored, and wished her bon voyage. She moved the car onto the road with ease, as if she enjoyed it, and Daniel kept his eyes straight ahead. He was determined not to let her guess that the thought of speeding along the open road toward the sea, with her at the wheel of this car, driving at over thirty miles an hour, was the second to last thing he wanted. The very last was for her to know he was afraid.
“Have you?” he said, his mouth dry.
“She was quite a rebel, in her own quiet way,” she answered. “She had a sister who was the obedient one, who was forced to marry ‘well’ and was very unhappy. She died in childbirth, poor soul, and I believe the child died soon after. May was terribly grieved. She never really put it behind her. Somebody who knew her said it was as if she were living for her sister, too.”
Daniel had never known them, and yet he felt the loss of that young woman and her child. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He looked sideways at Miriam and saw tears glistening on her cheek.
“That was when May decided to break from her family and go her own way,” Miriam went on. She steered around a horse and a two-wheeled carriage going at about half their speed. “It was a rift never really mended,” she continued. “But she was a clever woman. She developed an interest in stones.” She stopped, perhaps obliged to look more carefully at the road ahead. The traffic was increasing, but Daniel thought it was more likely that she averted her eyes to compose herself from the emotion of that long-ago grief.
They drove in silence for several minutes at a steady speed. They seemed to be taking the road for the south coast, through Guildford, the village of Haslemere, and then over the glorious sweep of the South Downs to Portsmouth.
“Stones?” he prompted her.
“Yes. All kinds, except the really precious ones. She had no interest in diamonds and rubies and such. She liked rock crystal, malachite, topaz, and other less well-known semiprecious stones. And river pearls. They come in different pale colors, you know. And dark ones sometimes, grays and purplish shades.”
“What did she do with them?” Daniel was interested, in spite of himself.
“She made jewelry and sold it. That was how she supported herself. She worked for a famous jeweler. She just signed her name ‘Trelawny,’ and became quite famous herself. She probably made the rock crystal pendant she gave to Rebecca. If it were a Trelawny piece, it’ll be worth more than if it were not.”
“Do you think that matters?”
“It might. She did quite well, but she was never rich—at least, as far as anyone knows. She gave quite a lot away, so it was said. But to unusual characters, like those who cared for old and unwanted animals, such as horses that couldn’t work anymore.” She was picking up speed again along the road leading to the coast.
Daniel wanted to ask if she had booked tickets for them on the ferry, or if there was more than one crossing, in case they missed the next one. But he was not sure he wanted the answer yet. Maybe there were several at this time of year. They would travel from Portsmouth to Cherbourg on the French coast, and from there by another ferry to Alderney, which was far closer to France than any of the other Channel Isles.
He realized that in some ways he knew Miriam so well from the Graves case. He knew her imagination, her logic, the strength of the anger and the pity that drove her to find the truth. He had felt the fierce gentleness of her compassion for Graves’s son in the wheelchair, possibly for the rest of his life, who painted such beautiful pictures of birds in flight, as if he had felt the exaltation of freedom, the soaring wings, the endlessness of it. He had felt the same emotion himself.
And yet he also knew her so little. He knew what she dreamed of and could not have, because she was a woman. He had no idea what she wanted and could have, or at least aspire to, whether she had ever fallen in love or wanted to marry. Had she wanted to have children, but left it too late? Or loved someone not free to marry her? Was it a pain too deep to share with anyone? So much of what he knew was in the head. The heart was only guessed at.
It was she who broke the silence. “We may not learn anything.” She sounded as if it were an apology. “But I think Rebecca may be more at the center of this than we supposed,” she continued. “She knew Sidney and apparently liked him. If he took the pendant, then he must have been a pretty good rotter. But if he didn’t—if he was telling the truth, as far as he knew it, in all other things—then there are big pieces of this that we don’t know. And the person we know least about is the one whose death lies
at the beginning of this.”
“May?” he asked, forcing his mind to pay attention. “The Thorwoods already have very much more money than May Trelawny, and Rebecca is the only heir to both, or should I say all three of them,” he replied. “Presumably, if her father dies first, her mother will be provided for. And I didn’t have the impression from Jemima that Rebecca cares about money anyway. I suppose she has never had to.”
“Possibly it is something to do with this house in Alderney,” Miriam suggested. “Or maybe something happened there that matters.” She did not offer any suggestion as to what that might be.
For another little while they drove in silence through Guildford, and then through the lush countryside toward Haslemere. They spoke of other things: books, ideas, current politics. She supported the King, but without much enthusiasm. His odd mixture of personality did not please her, although she granted his talents. She was troubled by his frequent travels to visit his cousin the Kaiser of Germany, and by the increasingly difficult political situation there—and incidentally the rising power of the German Navy. Daniel’s father would have agreed with her on that.
“England is stuck in a historical time lock,” she said, with an edge of either fear or anger in her voice—he was not sure which. She was staring at the road along which they were still traveling at higher speed than when they had begun. The last thing he wanted was to distract her attention, and yet he wondered what she meant. He had to ask. “If not in the present, where are we?”
“A hundred years ago,” she answered without hesitation. “Only fifty militarily, with the Crimean War, perhaps. But as far as the navy is concerned, we still think we have mastery over the oceans of the world, as if Nelson were only just dead, as if unaware of the new developments the Germans are making with their submarines.”
He realized she was afraid. His instinct was to reach out and touch her, as he would have Jemima. He even began to, then saw that the gesture would be far too familiar. Even condescending, although he did not mean it to be. “Do you think the growing naval strength of Germany has anything to do with this? With Sidney? Could he have known something?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. It was a silly idea, but he could not take it back.
She turned to look at him for a moment, then back at the road. She did not see his white knuckles as he held on to the dashboard while she swept over the crown of a hill and the great panorama of the land opened up before their eyes: rich harvest fields, clumps of trees, villages marked by towering church spires, and beyond them all, the gleam of the light on far distant water.
“Perhaps,” she replied to the question. “Whatever it is, we’ve missed it so far. That light over there, that’s the sea.” She was smiling. She did not look at him, but kept her eyes straight ahead.
Daniel could not think of the right words to say, so he remained silent.
They came over the rise, and the deep blue of the sea filled the horizon, dotted here and there with little boats, white sails dazzling against the water. Already the sun was lower, the air tinted with color.
She drove down into Portsmouth and toward the dockyard. The town of Portsmouth was a naval port, with the dockyard home to many classic ships from the great naval history of the nation. But it was also a busy working dock of the present, with cargoes from every country in the world.
They parked the car in a secure place near the terminal and went to the pier to purchase tickets for the ferry to Cherbourg. It turned out they had only twenty minutes to wait until boarding.
The wind was cooling a little, although the sea was calm and the gulls circling above them moved on the currents of the air, the low sun catching them white and gleaming. Miriam watched them, clearly fascinated. Daniel stood on the wooden pier, smelling the tide, hearing it lap against the stanchions below them, and wondered what she was thinking. Scientific thoughts about the dynamics of flight? Or dreams of a world of light and air? He did not ask, because he realized how much he hoped it was the latter.
It was quite a short journey, so there was no luxury on board the ferry, but it was pleasant enough. The seats were comfortable, and Daniel and Miriam sat side by side, facing forward.
They talked of many things during the sea crossing, but they also sat silently, confident to rest in their own thoughts. Daniel would have liked to let his mind wander, but time was too short. He rehearsed over and over again every step of the case, using alternative interpretations of facts.
If Sidney was not guilty, then who was? And what motive had they? Every step must fit the explanation. Was it very carefully planned, each move forming part of it from the outset, every alternative planned for? Or was it a series of accidents, new plans made even while changing course? Was the person behind it brilliantly clever, or just lucky, time and time again?
Was the motive idealistic, if misguided? Or was it greed? Or a way to save themselves, or someone they cared for, or someone necessary to them for…what?
How much was it going to hurt when they knew the truth? If they ever did. He realized how much he was afraid for Jemima. Was Patrick’s part in it going to stain her world irreparably? And would she hate Daniel for being the one to expose it? That tempted him to let it go. It would be easy not to find the answer. He might not be able to find it anyway. Yet how often had he condemned other people for doing exactly that? But who, apart from himself, would know if he had not looked? If Jemima ever found out, she would know it was because he was afraid of what he would find…which could only be that Patrick was guilty of playing some part in the involvement of the Thorwoods in Philip Sidney’s downfall. Could it possibly be unwitting? He doubted it. Patrick appeared very direct, open. But then he would—he was with his wife’s family. And he was very much in love with Jemima. Anyone could see that. But it did not mean there was not a complex and clever man behind the smile and the humor, the will to please.
And if Daniel willingly looked away, his father would know and despise him. He would have betrayed Pitt’s trust and, if he were to succeed in anything, the trust he must have in himself.
They disembarked at Cherbourg and went straight to the Alderney ferry. There was little time to spare since they were timed to coincide.
The second journey was only a few miles.
The ferry docked and Daniel and Miriam disembarked, Daniel carrying their small bags, and they walked in the summer darkness up the slight hill to the little town of St. Anne. The whole isle of Alderney was only three miles long and one and a half miles wide.
They had come without booking any accommodations in advance. There had been no time. They would have to trust their luck in finding a hotel. It was August, the best month for holidays. The hotels might well all be full.
“Well, May Trelawny’s house will be empty,” Miriam said with a wry smile when Daniel said this. She did not apologize for the oversight and the assumption that he would not mind, but he thought from her slight hesitation that she had considered whether she should and had deliberately not done so.
“She’s been dead over a month,” he pointed out, smiling back, although she would see little of his face in the soft darkness. “It would be warm enough, this time of year, but there won’t be any food, and there may not be any sheets or blankets.” He deliberately avoided mentioning any of the other possible inconveniences, or the awkwardness of doing so much together and yet in most ways being so far apart. “And how do you intend we get in? It’s breaking and entering.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Miriam admitted, “and I’m not happy about it, but what else can we do? Daniel, we need to get into the house. I really believe the answer lies with May Trelawny’s death.”
“I know,” he said gently, then smiled. “Luckily, I can pick locks.”
“What?”
“I can pick locks without leaving a trace. Roman Blackwell taught me.”
“I should have
known.” She laughed quietly.
“Don’t worry, I won’t break anything.”
“We’ll eat in St. Anne,” she suggested. “And then walk there. I don’t believe they have cars in Alderney.” She was looking straight ahead, as if watching where she was going, but he thought she was also avoiding looking at him.
“Well, May Trelawny’s house can’t be more than a couple of miles,” he pointed out. “Or we will be in the sea.”
They were in town already, but there was no one about.
“Fortunately I remembered to bring a lock pick,” he added.
“What? Oh! Yes.” She turned to look at him in the light of a streetlamp. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“You! Hadn’t thought?” He tried not to laugh as he said it.
For a moment, she seemed off balance, as if not sure if he was teasing her or not.
It was the first time he could recall her at a loss and suddenly he saw her vulnerable—not absolutely sure of herself.
“No. But we’ll manage better with one, won’t we?” There was less confusion in her voice now. It had been only a moment, but it stayed with him.
“Of course,” he said cheerfully. “The hotel will give us a decent meal and, please heaven, they will know where Aunt May’s house is!”
“Do you think I don’t?” she asked. “I did do at least that much. I was prepared for the possibility that you wouldn’t come!” She shot a brief glance at him, and then looked away again.
They reached the hotel and went in the well-lit doorway, into a warm reception room decorated with flowers.
They asked for accommodations but were not surprised to be told that every room in the town was taken. The weather had been lovely, and the few people who knew the island well returned again and again.
They were welcome to a hearty dinner, though.
“We’ll start tomorrow,” Daniel said, when they were seated and looking at the surprisingly sophisticated menu. It was only then that he remembered that while on English territory, they were geographically far closer to France. The French influence was so natural, fitting in so easily, that they barely noticed it.
