His At Night

by Sherry Thomas

  “Mrs. Douglas is not at home. But I will be happy to relate your message to her.”

  Nevinson hesitated. “Forgive me, ma’am. What I am about to say is of an extraordinarily sensitive nature. Is it at all possible that I may speak to Mrs. Douglas face-to-face?”

  “Alas,” said Elissande, still smiling, “I’m afraid it is not possible.”

  The man regarded Elissande. “And why is that so, Lady Vere?”

  Elissande cleared her throat and exaggeratedly looked about the empty drawing room. Then she said in a stage whisper, “You see, sir, for some time every month, she suffers. Oh, how she suffers. You could even say she is in the veriest of agony.”

  Nevinson obviously had not expected this particular answer. He flushed a deep red and struggled to regain his composure.

  “In that case, I’d be grateful if you would pass on the message to Mrs. Douglas.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but Mr. Douglas has been arrested this morning on suspicion of murder.”

  Elissande blinked. “Is this a joke, Detective?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It is not. We have sufficient evidence to believe that he is responsible for the murder of one Stephen Delaney, a scientist whose unpublished method of diamond synthesis he stole.”

  Why would her uncle kill a man for a method of diamond synthesis when he already had access to vast quantities of natural diamonds? The accusation was too ridiculous for words. This had to be a ploy. How long could she keep Nevinson in the drawing room? Could she get a message to her husband that he was to whisk her aunt away this moment?

  She was breaking out in a cold sweat. She must not go into a panic. She needed to think clearly and effectively.

  What was that? Someone was singing outside the drawing room—a familiar song.

  “‘I’ve got a little cat. And I’m very fond of that. But I’d rather have a bow-wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow.’”

  She had to conceal a smile as her husband opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Good morning, my dear. How lovely you are, as always,” he warbled.

  Thank God! She’d never been so happy to see anyone.

  Lord Vere, sloppily dressed, his hair still sleep-mussed, turned toward Elissande’s caller. “And is that you, Detective Netherby?” he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.

  “Nevinson, my lord.”

  Had she caught a grimace on Nevinson’s face?

  “I knew it!” exclaimed Lord Vere, strolling into the room. “I never forget a face or a name. You were the lead detective on the Huntleigh case.”

  “The Haysleigh case.”

  “That’s what I said. When Lady Haysleigh was discovered to have faked her own death in order to escape a prior marriage and marry Lord Haysleigh—and then she attempted to murder her first husband when he arrived at the Haysleigh estate.”

  “That, sir, would be the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel. Lord Haysleigh’s younger brother, Mr. Hudson, attempted to poison Lady Haysleigh in order to frame Lord Haysleigh for murder so that he himself would come into the title.”

  “Really? I always thought that was the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel.” Lord Vere sat down and accepted a cup of tea from Elissande. “Thank you, my dear. Now, Detective, I’m under the impression the Haysleigh case was settled several years ago.”

  “It was, sir.”

  “That’s a bit odd to see you here then. I didn’t know we were on calling terms.”

  Nevinson clenched his teeth. “Never fear, my lord. I’m here strictly on business.”

  “Ah, and what business would that be? I assure you, I have been nowhere near any suspicious activities.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t, sir. I’m here to see Mrs. Douglas about her husband.”

  Elissande had been so entertained watching her husband toy with Nevinson that only upon the reference to her uncle did she suddenly understand the significance of what had transpired before her.

  Nevinson was not an impostor. He was a real detective, here on official business.

  And he was not lying to her.

  As if to underscore that realization, Detective Nevinson repeated to Lord Vere, almost word for word, what he had told Elissande.

  Her uncle, a murderer.

  Her head exploded piece by tiny piece. It was not a terrible sensation: bizarre and disconcerting, but not terrible. There would be an awful scandal, there was no avoiding that. But what a tremendous silver lining. Her uncle had been arrested: He was in no position to compel Aunt Rachel to return to him now.

  Moreover, once he was tried and convicted, he would rot in jail for a long, long time. Perhaps he would even hang. And Elissande and Aunt Rachel would be free, completely, gloriously free.

  She barely heard her husband when he said, “But of course you and your men are welcome to search the manor from top to bottom. Is that all right with you, my dear?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That is the express purpose of Detective Nevinson’s visit. It is a courtesy on his part, as by now I believe he needs no permission from us to search Highgate Court.”

  “Well, yes, of course. We shall cooperate fully.”

  Nevinson thanked them and rose to leave.

  She had to restrain herself from screaming in elation as she bade Nevinson good day. As soon as he left, she leaped high in the air, wrapped her husband in a hard embrace, then ran upstairs, tears streaming down her face, to inform her aunt of the news of their deliverance.

  * * *

  Stephen Delaney’s main area of scientific interest had indeed been the artificial synthesis of diamonds, as amply demonstrated by the box of documents Lord Yardley had sent to Holbrook—apparently the file Vere had read had been a mere extract.

  While Vere had slept off the rum, Holbrook had cracked the code used in Douglas’s dossier. Last night, using Holbrook’s guide, Vere had deciphered pages in the dossier, the text of which was identical to that in Delaney’s spare laboratory notebook. (Apparently, Delaney had a system whereby he took his own notes in his primary notebook; then his assistant copied the notes and stored the duplicate notebook away from the laboratory for safekeeping.) So even though Douglas had stolen and, in all probability, subsequently destroyed Delaney’s primary notebook, the existence of the duplicate still clearly and powerfully connected Douglas’s dossier and Delaney’s research.

  And even better: a note written in the margins of a page in Douglas’s dossier, which when deciphered read, Should not have done away with the bastard before I could reproduce his results.

  Enough to arrest and charge Douglas. And enough, along with the ongoing investigation into his other crimes and strong pressure from Yardley—in response to Vere’s request—to hold Douglas without bail.

  Vere was suddenly tired. It always came, this bone-deep weariness at the end of a case. But it seemed even more draining this time. Perhaps because above him his wife was literally jumping for joy, the impact of her landings reverberating through the ceiling.

  Her purposes for this marriage had been served: She was safe and she was free, as was her aunt. He would let some more time elapse—for Douglas to be tried and convicted—and then he would demand an annulment.

  It was still possible, or so he liked to think, to repair the damages she had wrought. When he’d had time and distance enough from her, her face and her smile would cease to intrude into his fantasies of tranquillity and peacefulness. Then, when he wanted simple companionship, he would have simple companionship, and all the easy comfort that came with it.

  The emotions Lady Vere invoked were too dark, too sharp, too unnerving. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want the frustration, the lust, or the dangerous longings she incited. He wanted only for things to go back as they were, before their paths collided: an inner life that was soothing, consoling, placating, thickly buffered from the realities of his life.

  Rather like Mrs. Douglas with her laudanum.

  He poured himself two fingers of whiskey and downed it in a sing
le gulp.

  Upstairs she jumped again. No doubt she was laughing and crying at the same time, weightless with happiness and relief, her nightmare at last coming to an end.

  His nightmares would just have to go on.

  * * *

  “Allow me to read you a passage from my diary, dated twelve April 1884,” said Angelica. She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘On the bank of the trout stream, I read and Freddie drew. Penny struck up a conversation with the vicar, who was out on a walk—something about the Gnostics and the Council of Nicaea.’”

  She looked up. “My goodness, remember how learned Penny used to be?”

  “I remember,” said Freddie.

  But he never remembered it without an echo of sadness.

  “At least he’s happily married now. His wife seems to find him nothing short of miraculous.”

  “That does make me happy. I like the way she looks at him: There is so much that’s good and admirable in Penny.”

  Angelica slid her finger along the edge of her leather-bound diary. “But?” she prompted him.

  He smiled. She knew him too well. “I’ll admit I am a little envious. I used to think that if I ended up an old bachelor, at least I’d have Penny for company.”

  “You can always have my company,” she said. “It would be like being children all over again, except with fewer teeth.”

  He suddenly recalled an instance of fewer teeth. “Do you remember the time I accidentally broke my father’s favorite pair of spectacles?”

  “Was that the time when I stole my mother’s specs to replace them and we were hoping he wouldn’t find out?”

  “Yes, that was it. My mother and Penny were both away somewhere and I was scared out of my wits. And you suggested that we pull your loose teeth to keep my mind off the specs.”

  “Really?” She chuckled. “I don’t remember that part at all.”

  “Your new teeth had come out already. And your old teeth were so loose they were flapping about like a line of washing in the wind. Everyone was after you to get rid of the old teeth, but you were adamant that no one come near them.”

  “My goodness. Now I remember a little. I used to sleep with a scarf over my mouth, so that my governess couldn’t have at them.”

  “I was so surprised that you’d let me, I forgot all about the specs. We pulled out four of your teeth that afternoon.”

  She bent over laughing.

  “Listen, it gets better: My father dropped your mother’s specs and stepped on them before he could put them on and realize they were the wrong ones. It had to be one of the few times when my clumsiness didn’t get someone into trouble. The relief, my God.”

  “Well, one thing is certain: I will not let you pull out any of my teeth when I’m a crone.”

  He raised his coffee cup to her in salute. “Understood. All the same, I’d be thrilled to have your company when I’m a dotard.”

  She returned his salute, her eyes sparkling, and he suddenly realized, for the very first time, how privileged he was to have known her his entire life. Sometimes one took the best things in one’s life for granted. He never fully understood how much he had wholeheartedly depended on Penny before Penny’s accident changed everything. And he’d never considered the central role Angelica’s friendship had played in his life, especially in those difficult, vulnerable years under his father—until now, when he was full of feelings that threatened to imperil that very friendship.

  “Now, where were we?” She set down her coffee cup and found her place in the diary. “Here we go. ‘The old dear, evidently delighted with the discussion, invited all of us to the vicarage for tea.’”

  “We were at Lyndhurst Hall, weren’t we?” he asked, beginning to have some recollection himself. “For the duchess’s Easter house party?”

  “Precisely. Now listen to this: ‘The tea was very nice, as was Mrs. Vicar, but what caught my attention was the painting in the parlor of the vicarage. A beautiful angel, taking up most of the canvas, hovered above a man who was clearly in a state of worshipful ecstasy. The name of the painting was The Adoration of the Angel. I asked Mrs. Vicar the name of the artist—he had signed only his initials, G. C. Mrs. Vicar did not know, but she said that they had bought the painting from the London art dealer Cipriani.’”

  “Cipriani? The one who never forgets anything that passes through his hands?”

  “That’s the one,” she said, closing her diary with much satisfaction. “He’s retired now. But I wrote to him this morning. Who knows? He might welcome us to call on him.”

  “You are a marvel,” he said, meaning every word.

  “Of course I am,” said Angelica, her black skirts rustling as she rose. “So you see, I’ve been upholding my end of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”

  His hands perspired. He dreaded seeing her naked again, even as he couldn’t wait to walk into the studio and have her beautiful form spread like a feast before him—a feast for a man who must fast.

  He had been working on the painting, his head overrun with carnal thoughts even as he analyzed color, texture, and composition. His dreams, full of erotic interludes ever since she’d broached the subject of the portrait, had by now taken on a disturbing vividness.

  He cleared his throat rather ineffectually—and cleared his throat again. “I suppose you want to go up to the studio then?”

  * * *

  Freddie had set the studio ablaze with light—too much light, in Angelica’s opinion. Her skin would gleam unbearably bright under such lighting, and she always preferred the flesh tones in her paintings to look more natural.

  There was a camera—not Freddie’s No. 4 Kodak, which she had seen before, but a much more elaborate studio camera on a wooden tripod, with bellows for focusing and a black cloth draped behind. There was also a flashlamp, a screen of cheesecloth, and several white screens set at various angles.

  “What is the camera for?” she asked, once he’d reentered the studio, after she’d disrobed and lain down.

  “It must be a chore for you to pose for so long—and I’m not a fast painter. But once I have the photographs, I can work from them and you won’t need to shiver in the cold.”

  “It’s not cold.” A fire had been laid in the grate and he’d supplied several braziers. He must be warm.

  “Still.”

  “But photographs do not convey color!”

  “Perhaps not, but they do convey shading and contrast, and I already know the exact hue of your skin,” he said, disappearing behind the black cloth.

  Disappointment gripped her. The nude portrait was her gambit for him to see her as a woman, and not just a friend. And she’d thought it more or less successful—he had looked at her strangely in the darkroom, as if he were on the verge of kissing her. But once he had the photographs, not only would he not need her naked, he wouldn’t even need her in the studio anymore.

  “What if the photographs are underexposed or overexposed?”

  “Pardon?” The sound of his voice was muffled by the black cloth.

  “What if the photographs don’t come out well?”

  He reemerged from behind the camera. “I’ve half a dozen plates. One of them is bound to turn out well.”

  He pulled the trigger on the flashlamp. It took a moment for the cartridge of magnesium powder to ignite, and for the controlled explosion to produce a burst of brilliant white light. He ducked again under the black cloth.

  This time, when he came out, he raised the height of the flashlamp, moved the cheesecloth screen forward by a foot, and adjusted the angle of a white silk screen on the far side of the bed.

  The screen was only two feet from the edge of the bed. As he lifted his head, he looked directly down at her, from what seemed a great height.

  She licked her lips in nervousness. His hand tightened on the screen. And then he was walking away, back to the camera.

  “I’m going to draw the slide,” he said. “Make sure you are in the pose you want.”

&
nbsp; Her heart hammered, agitated by both his nearness and his refusal to succumb to her seduction. Her lips parted, her breaths shallow, she turned her head until she looked directly into the lens of his camera.

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon before Elissande noticed the oddity of Aunt Rachel’s reaction.

  In the morning she had been too joyful, too overwhelmed herself to mark Aunt Rachel’s speechlessness as anything other than blissful stupefaction. She had jumped up and down like a monkey—though her landings had sounded more like those of a rhinoceros—and wept until she was a few pounds lighter.

  She had thought nothing of her aunt’s request for a bit of laudanum. Aunt Rachel was frail. The day’s news was shocking. Of course she needed time and rest before she could properly cope with it.

  When Aunt Rachel had fallen asleep, Elissande had sat next to her bed for some time, holding her hand, smoothing her hair, full of gratitude that Aunt Rachel had lived to see this day, and that she still had years ahead of her to be enjoyed, free of fear and shadows.

  Then she’d gone to look for her husband, for no reason other than that she wanted to see him—he was the closest thing she had to an ally. And on this wonderful, triumphant day, who better to celebrate with than him?

  But he had gone out already. So she contented herself with having his coachman drive her around town, and took pleasure in London for the first time since her arrival. She watched young people on bicycles in the park, walked every floor of Harrods, and then spent so long in Hatchards that her gloves were completely soiled with book dust.

  She also visited Needham again and asked to be recommended a physician who was an expert on opiate addiction. As it turned out, Needham considered himself sufficiently versed in the matter to help her.

  “He says it need not involve any suffering at all,” she told Aunt Rachel when she reached home. “Each day you will take the same amount of a special tonic. But the amount of laudanum in each subsequent bottle of tonic will gradually be reduced. Your body will easily adjust to the new dosage until you no longer need any laudanum at all.

  “And to think, all the torment my uncle put you through, when he could have—” She waved a hand in the air. “Never mind him. We need not think of him ever again.”