Belgrave Square (32 page)

She stopped, seemed to brace herself, and then began again, not looking at him but at the window and the deepening light on the trees rustling in the sunset wind. “If it is hurting Frederick that fills him with such horror, I can understand it very easily. But perhaps he will have no alternative, in the end, but to expose Weems’s murderer and risk his telling everything, at his trial, if not before. I—” She
hunched her shoulders and tightened her hands, her fingers knotted in the soft fabric of her skirt.

Instinctively he leaned even closer to her, then stopped. He had no idea whether she was aware of him or not.

“I wonder whether he knows who it is?” she went on, her voice very low and a thrill of horror in it. “And if it is not a stranger, not some poor debtor from Clerkenwell, but a man he has some acquaintance with, even some sympathy for—and that is why he is so reluctant to expose him? That would explain a great deal.”

She shivered. “It would be easier then to understand why he is in such an agony of mind. Poor Sholto. What a fearful decision to have to make.” She turned back to Drummond, her eyes wide. “And if Weems would blackmail Sholto, then he would as easily blackmail someone else, wouldn’t he?”

“We believe he has,” he agreed quietly, Addison Carswell in his mind, and a new shadow of pity. What a miserable and futile waste of life and all its wealth. Over what? An infatuation with a pretty face, a young body and a few hours of an appetite and a dream that could never last.

She saw the distress in his face and her expression changed from hope to sorrow.

“You know who it is?” she said in little more than a whisper.

“I know who it may be—”

In the beginning she had said “the least awful possibility.” Neither of them spoke the most awful—that Byam had killed Weems and his fear was dreadfully and sickeningly for himself. He would not say it now.

It was getting late. The quality of the light was beginning to change, deepening in color, and already the shadows were across the floor and creeping up the brilliance of the far wall, lighting the peacock fire screen. He did not want her to leave, and yet he was afraid if he offered her refreshment she would realize the hour and excuse herself. But what else could he ask her?

“Mr. Drummond—” She turned around towards him, rearranging her skirt.

“I have not offered you anything by way of refreshment,” he said quickly, his voice louder than he had intended.

“Oh please do not put yourself to inconvenience. It is
most kind of you to have spared me your time, and at this hour. You must be tired.”

“Please! Allow me to repair my oversight.”

“It is not necessary, I assure you. You have been most patient.”

He stood up and reached for the bell and rang it furiously.

“I have been very remiss. I would like some refreshment myself, and it is far too early for dinner. Please permit me to redeem myself.”

“No redemption is required,” she said with a smile. “But if it would make you feel more comfortable, then I will be glad to take a little tea.”

“Excellent!” His spirits soared and he rang the bell again and immediately Goodall appeared, his face politely inquiring.

“Tea,” Drummond said quickly. “And something …”

“Yes sir.” Goodall withdrew, his face expressionless.

Drummond sat opposite her again, wondering what to discuss. The formal part of her visit seemed to have exhausted itself and he had no desire at all to pursue the subject. He wanted to know more about her, but it seemed too crass simply to ask. He had not felt so awkward with anyone since before he had been married, when he was a young man raw to the army, and not even having thought of the police force for a career. He could remember balls and soirees then when he had felt this tongue-tied and desperate for something casual and charming to say.

Before the silence grew oppressive she rescued him. No doubt it was easy for her, with a relationship which hardly mattered.

“This is a most pleasing room, Mr. Drummond. Have you always lived here?”

“No—no, I lived in Kensington before my wife died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I expect you miss her very much.”

“It is some years now, but yes, there are times when it seems very silent, and I imagine what it would be like if she were here,” he replied truthfully. “She was …” He looked at her and saw only interest in her face. He had thought he would not wish to tell her of Catriona, that it would be somehow
disloyal, but now that it came to the moment it was not. In fact it seemed a very natural thing to do.

“She was so vivid. She looked at me so directly.” He smiled at the remembrance. “Her father used to criticize her for it and say it was unbecoming in a woman, but I found it honest, as if she were interested in everything and would not stoop to pretending she was not. She liked bright colors, all sorts of reds and glowing blues.” Involuntarily his eyes went to the peacock screen. “I recall once, years ago, she went to dinner in a gown of such a fierce flame color that she was noticed immediately when one entered the room.” His smile broadened. It was all so much easier than he had expected, so much more natural. “Looking back it was rather ostentatious, which was not what she meant at all. She simply loved the color and it made her feel happy to look at it. We laughed about it afterwards. Catriona laughed very easily, she enjoyed so many things.”

“It is a rare gift,” Eleanor said warmly. “And a very precious one. Too much happiness is lost because we spend our time regretting the past and seeking for the future and miss what we are given for the moment at hand. The gift to be happy is a blessing to all around. Do you have a picture of her?”

“She disliked the camera. She felt it caught only the outer person, and she did not care for the way she looked …”

Surprise flickered across Eleanor’s face.

“The person you describe sounds so lovely I had imagined her beautiful.”

“Catriona?” He was a little surprised. “When you knew her, she was. She had lovely eyes, very dark and wide, and shining hair; but she was a very big woman. After our daughters were born she seemed to become bigger, and never lost it again. I think she was more aware of it than anyone else. I certainly was not.”

“Then it hardly matters, does it?” Eleanor said, dismissing it. “Catriona. That is an unusual name. Was she Scottish?”

“Yes—as my father was, although I was born here in England.”

Goodall returned with a tray of tea and sandwiches and their conversation was interrupted while it was set down.

Goodall poured and passed the cups and the plates, then withdrew again.

“We have talked enough about me,” Drummond said, dismissing himself as a further topic. He was keen to hear something of her, even if it proved to be oddly painful: a whole world in which she knew and cared for other people and into which he could never intrude once this wretched case was over. “Please tell me of yourself.”

He half expected her to make the usual demur that modesty dictated. It was an automatic reaction of women, required by society, to be self-effacing, and he was delighted when she began a trifle awkwardly, but without excuse, as though she wished him to know.

She sipped her tea then set the cup down and began.

“My father was a man of letters, a student, but I barely remember him.” Her lips curled with a faint smile, but of far-off memories, not self-pity. “He died when I was nine, and I am afraid I can bring back to mind only the faintest recollections of him. He always seemed to have a book open in his hand, and he was very absentminded. I recall him as thin and dark, and he spoke very softly. But I am not sure if that is true memory, or the mind of my adult knowledge painting it for me from a late picture my mother had.”

Drummond thought of the privation of a new widow with a child to raise. His tea sat forgotten.

“What happened to you?” he asked with concern. “Had your mother family?”

“Oh yes. My grandfather was an archdeacon and he had a very good living. We went to live with him, my mother, my brother, my sister and myself. It was a large country house outside Bath, and very agreeable, with a garden full of flowers and an orchard where I remember playing.” Again she sipped her tea and took one of the small sandwiches. “My grandmother was rather strict, but she indulged us when she chose. I was a touch afraid of her, because I never learned precisely what pleased her and what did not, so I could never judge what her temper would be. I think now, looking back, that perhaps it had nothing to do with me at all.” She smiled and met his eye with sudden clarity. “I think children imagine themselves far more important than they are, and take
the blame for a great deal that has no connection with them at all. Don’t you?”

It had never occurred to him. His own daughters were grown up and married, and he could not remember ever having spoken with them of such things. “I am sure you are right,” he lied without a flicker. “You seem to remember it very clearly.”

“I do, it was a happy time. I think I knew that even then.” She smiled as she thought of it, and he could see in her eyes that her thoughts were far away. “I think that was one of the things I liked best about Sholto when I first met him,” she said quite naturally, as if Drummond were an old friend and easy to talk to.

At last Drummond picked up his cup, as much to avoid staring as from any taste for it.

“He saw the beauty of land,” she continued. “The sunlight in the silent orchard, dappling all the tree trunks, the boughs of blossom so low they tangled in the long grass. Grandpapa was always telling the gardener to tend the vegetables so the poor man never got time to prune the trees. We had far too many apples and plums, but they were never very large. Geoffrey hated the place. He said it was a waste.”

“Who was Geoffrey?” he asked.

“I was betrothed to him when I was twenty-one. He was a dragoon. I thought he was so dashing.” She laughed a little at herself. “Though looking back, I think he was probably pompous and very self-important. But it was a long time ago.”

“And you left him for Lord Byam?” He should not have asked—it was indelicate—but he realized it only after the words were out.

“Oh no!” she said quickly. “Grandpapa heard that Geoffrey had been paying attention to a young lady of”—she colored—“of questionable reputation, and Grandpapa said I could not possibly marry him. He broke off the engagement. I heard later that Geoffrey married a viscount’s daughter.” She laughed as she said it, and he knew it had long ago ceased to hurt.

“Then Mama died and I found myself running the household and caring for Grandpapa,” she went on. “He was a bishop by then. My sister died in childbirth and my brother
lost a leg in the Indian mutiny in ’fifty-eight. It was shortly after that when I met Sholto, and we became betrothed very quickly. Grandpapa liked him, which made it all so much easier. And Sholto’s conduct was irreproachable and his reputation spotless. Grandpapa inquired into it exhaustively. I was mortified, but poor Sholto bore it all with excellent temper. I could have loved him for that alone. But he was also possessed of a greater sense of humor, and that made him so agreeable to be with. People who can laugh at themselves are seldom insufferable, don’t you think? I have often considered if a sense of humor is not closely allied to a sense of proportion in things. Have you?”

“You are right,” he agreed quickly. “It is when one’s sense of proportion is offended that one can see the absurd. And when it is not ugly it is funny, but either way, we know that it cannot be overlooked. One can never be intimidated in the same way by what one perceives as ridiculous, so perhaps it has a kind of relationship to courage as well.”

“Courage?” Her eyebrows rose. “I had not thought of that. And speaking of courage, Mr. Drummond, I am most grateful for your kindness to us, and your endless patience. Now I must not exhaust it by overstaying. It is growing dusk and I must return home before I cause comment by the uninformed. It would be an ill way to repay your generosity.”

“Please do not worry,” he said urgently. “I will do everything I can …”

“I know.”

“And—and Pitt is an excellent man, even brilliant at times.”

She smiled, a wide, generous gesture as if for a moment all her fears had been lifted, although he knew it could not be so.

“Thank you. I know it is in the best possible hands.” She rose to her feet and he stood quickly, reaching for her shawl to wrap around her shoulders. She accepted it graciously. Then after a second’s hesitation, she went to the door and he stepped ahead to open it for her. She gave him her hand for an instant, then withdrew it. After only the briefest words, she was gone, and he was left in the hall doorway, with Goodall looking as surprised as his position and training would allow.

“A very distinguished lady,” Drummond said unnecessarily.

“Indeed sir,” Goodall said without expression.

“I’ll take dinner late this evening,” Drummond said sharply, irritated with Goodall and with himself.

“Very good, sir.”

In the morning Drummond set out for Bow Street with an unaccountable feeling of good cheer which he did not examine, for fear it would prove foolish if he discovered its reason and the little singing bubble of well-being inside him would burst. He strode along in the sun, swinging his cane, his hat at a rather more jaunty angle than customarily. He disregarded the newsboy shouting out the latest scandal in order to sell his papers, and the two dray drivers swearing at each other as they maneuvered their great horses, one around a corner, the other backing into a yard to unload. Even the barrel organist’s hurdy-gurdy sounded tuneful in the open air.

He caught a hansom in Piccadilly and dismounted at Bow Street. His good humor was met with a poor reward when he saw the desk sergeant’s face. He knew he was late, but that was his prerogative, and should not cause any comment, let alone alarm. His first thought was that something ugly had broken in the Weems case.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“Mr. Urban wants ter see yer, sir,” the sergeant replied. “I don’ rightly know what for.”

“Is Mr. Pitt in?”