Cardington Crescent (9 page)

The morning room door opened and the doctor returned. He had a deeply lined face, but they were all agreeable lines, marks of mobility and good nature. At the moment he looked profoundly unhappy. He closed the door behind him and turned from Eustace to Vespasia and back again.

“It was his heart, as you supposed,” he said gravely. “The only shred of comfort I can give you is that it must have been very quick—a matter of moments.”

“That is indeed a comfort,” Eustace acknowledged. “I am most obliged. I shall say so to Lady Ashworth. Thank you, Treves.”

But the doctor did not move. “Did Lord Ashworth have a dog, a small spaniel?”

“For heaven’s sake, what on earth does that matter?” Eustace was astounded by the triviality of the question at such a time.

“Did he?” the doctor repeated.

“No, my mother has. Why?”

“I am afraid the dog is also dead, Mr. March.”

“Well, that really hardly matters, does it?” Now Eustace was annoyed. “I’ll have one of the footmen dispose of it.” With an effort, he remembered his position, and thus his manners. “I’m obliged. Now if you will do whatever is necessary, we will make arrangements for the funeral.”

“That will not be possible, Mr. March.”

“What do you mean, ‘not possible’?” Eustace demanded, the pink mounting up his cheeks. “Of course it’s possible! Just do it, man!”

Vespasia looked at the doctor’s grim face.

“What is it, Dr. Treves?” she said quietly. “Why do you mention the dog? And how do you know about it? The servants did not call you to see a dead dog.”

“No, my lady.” He sighed deeply, the lines of his face dragging downward in acute distress. “The dog was under the foot of the bed. It died of a heart attack also, I should judge at about the same time as Lord Ashworth. It appears he fed it a little of his morning coffee from the tray served him, and drank some himself. In both cases, a very short while before death.”

The color fled from Eustace’s face. He swayed a little. “Good God, man! What on earth do you mean?”

Vespasia sank very slowly into the chair behind her. She knew what the doctor was going to say, and all its darkness was already crowding in upon her mind.

“I mean, sir, that Lord Ashworth died of a poison that was in his morning coffee.”

“Nonsense!” Eustace said furiously. “Absolute nonsense! The very idea is preposterous! Poor George had a heart attack—and—and the dog must have got upset—death, and all that—and it died as well. Coincidence! Just a—wretched coincidence.”

“No, sir.”

“Of course it is!” Eustace spluttered. “Of course. Why on earth would Lord Ashworth take poison, for heaven’s sake? You didn’t know the man, or you wouldn’t suggest such a damnable thing. And he certainly wouldn’t try it out on the dog first! George loved animals. The damn creature was devoted to him. Irritated my mother. It’s her dog, but it preferred George. He wouldn’t dream of hurting it. Bloody silly thing to say. And I assure you, he had no reason whatever to take his own life. He was a man of”—he gulped, glaring at Treves—“every possible happiness. Wealth, position, a fine wife and son.”

Treves opened his mouth to attempt again, but Vespasia interrupted him.

“I believe, Eustace, that Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took the poison knowingly.”

“Don’t be idiotic!” Eustace snapped, losing his self-control entirely. “Nobody commits suicide by accident! And no one in this household has any poison anyway.”

“Digitalis,” Treves put in with quiet weariness. “Quite a common medicine for heart complaints. I understand from the lady’s maid that Mrs. March herself still has some, but it is perfectly possible to distill it from foxgloves, if one wishes.”

Eustace collected himself again and his eyebrows rose in superb sarcasm. “And Lord Ashworth crept out at six o’clock in the morning, picked foxgloves in the garden, and distilled some digitalis?” he inquired heavily. “Did he do this in the kitchen with the scullery maids, or in the upstairs pantry with the lady’s maids and the footmen? Then, if I understand your implication correctly, he went back to his bedroom, waited till his coffee came, accidentally poisoned the dog, then poisoned himself? You are a raving fool, Treves! A blithering and incompetent ass! Write a death certificate and get out!”

Vespasia felt unaccountably sorry for Eustace. He was not going to be able to cope. He had never been as strong as he imagined—perhaps that was why he was so insufferably pompous.

“Eustace,” she said quietly and firmly, “Dr. Treves is not suggesting that George took it accidentally. As you observe, it is absurd. The inevitable conclusion is that someone else put it in his coffee while it was in the pantry—it would not be difficult, since everyone else takes tea. And poor George had no idea it was poisoned, either, when he gave it to the dog, or when he drank it himself.”

Eustace swung round and stared at her, suddenly hot with fear. His voice was hoarse and came with a squeak. “But that would be ... murder!”

“Yes, sir,” Treves agreed softly. “I am afraid it would. I have no alternative but to inform the police.”

Eustace gulped and let out his breath in a long sigh of pain. The struggle was obvious in his face, but he found no resolution.

“Of course,” Vespasia acknowledged. “Perhaps, if you would be so kind, you will call an Inspector Thomas Pitt. He is experienced and—and discreet.”

“If you wish, my lady,” Treves agreed. “I really am very sorry.”

“Thank you. The butler will show you the telephone. Now, I must make arrangements to have Lady Ashworth’s sister come to be with her.”

“Good.” Treves nodded. “For the best, as long as she is a sensible woman. Hysterics won’t help. How is Lady Ashworth? If you wish me to call on her ... ?”

“Not yet—perhaps tomorrow. Her sister is extremely sensible. I shouldn’t think she’s ever had hysterics in her life, and she’s certainly had cause.”

“Good. Then I’ll call again tomorrow. Thank you, Lady Cumming-Gould.” He bowed his head very slightly.

Emily would have to know; telling her would be most painful. First Vespasia would see old Mrs. March. She would be outraged. And that was about the only gossamer-thin thread of perverse satisfaction in all that had happened: Mrs. March would have something other to do than embarrass Tassie.

She was in her boudoir. The downstairs sitting room was reserved for ladies—or it had been, in the days when she ruled the house, as well as her daughters, two nieces, and an impoverished and thus dependent female cousin. She had clung on to her dominion of this strategically placed, octagonal room, renewing the suffocating pink decor, keeping the drapes on the mantelpiece and the pianoforte, the banks of photographs of every conceivable family group, and keeping the numerous surfaces ornamented with dried flower arrangements, wax fruit, a stuffed owl under glass, and multitudinous pieces of embroidery, doilies, runners, and antimacassars. There was even an aspidistra in the jardinière.

Now she was sitting here with her feet up on the pink chaise longue; if she had remained in her bedroom she would have been too far from the center of the house and might have missed something. Vespasia closed the door behind her and sat down on the overstuffed sofa opposite.

“Shall I send for a fresh dish of tea?” Mrs. March asked, eyeing her critically. “You look extremely peaked—quite ten years older.”

“I shall not have time to drink it,” Vespasia answered. “I have some extremely disturbing news to give you.”

“You can still take a dish of tea,” Mrs. March snapped. “You can drink and talk at the same time—you always have. Your face is decidedly pinched. You always favored George, regardless of his conduct. This must come very hard to you.”

“It does,” Vespasia replied curtly. She did not want to discuss her pain, least of all with Lavinia March, whom she had disliked for forty years. “However, when I have told you I shall have to tell others, prepare them for what must happen.”

“For goodness sake, stop talking in circles!” Mrs. March said sharply. “You are ridiculously self-important, Vespasia. This is Eustace’s house and he is quite capable of dealing with the arrangements. And as for Emily, of course, whatever you wish to do about her is your affair, but personally, I think the sooner she is sent back to her mother the better.”

“On the contrary, I shall send for her sister this afternoon. But rather before that, I fancy, we shall have her brother-in-law here.”

Mrs. March’s eyebrows rose; they were round and a little heavy, like Eustace’s, only her eyes were black.

“Has your bereavement robbed you of your wits, Vespasia? You will not have a vulgar policeman in my house. The fact that he is related to Emily is unfortunate, but it is not a burden we are called upon to bear.”

“It will be the least of them,” Vespasia said baldly. “George was murdered.”

Mrs. March stared at her for several seconds in silence. Then she reached for the flowered porcelain bell on the table and rang it instantly.

“I shall have your maid attend you. You had better lie down with a tisane and some salts. You have taken leave of your senses. Let us hope it is temporary. You should take a companion. I always said you spent too much time alone; you are a prey to unfortunate influences, but I am sure you are more sinned against than sinning. It is all most unfortunate. If the doctor is still in the house, I’ll send him up to you.” She rang the bell again so furiously she was in danger of cracking it. “Where on earth is that stupid maid? Can no one come when they are told?”

“For heaven’s sake, put it down and stop that racket!” Vespasia ordered. “Treves says George was poisoned with digitalis.”

“Nonsense! Or if he was, then he took his own life in a fit of despair. Everyone can see he is in love with Sybilla.”

“He was infatuated with her,” Vespasia corrected almost without thinking. It was only a matter of fact, and almost irrelevant now. “It is not at all the same thing. Men like George don’t kill themselves over women, you should know that. He could have had Sybilla if he wanted her, and probably did.”

“Don’t be coarse, Vespasia! Vulgarity is quite uncalled for!”

“He also killed the dog,” Vespasia added.

“What are you talking about? What dog? Who killed a dog?”

“Whoever killed George.”

“What dog? What has a dog to do with it?”

“Your dog, I’m afraid. The little spaniel. I’m sorry.”

“That proves you’re talking nonsense. George would never kill my dog. He was extremely fond of it—in fact he practically took it from me!”

“That is my point, Lavinia; someone else killed them both. Martin has sent for the police.”

Before Mrs. March could find a retort to that the door opened and a white-faced footman appeared.

“Yes, ma’am?”

Vespasia stood up. “I do not require anything, thank you. Perhaps you had better bring a fresh dish of tea for Mrs. March.” She walked past him and across the hallway to the stairs.

Emily woke up from a sleep so deep, at first she was confused and could not remember where she was. The room was very Oriental, full of whites and greens, with bamboo-patterned wallpaper and brocade curtains with chrysanthemums. The sun was off the windows, and yet the air was full of light.

Then she remembered it was afternoon—Cardington Crescent—she and George were staying with Uncle Eustace... . It all came back in an icy wave engulfing her: George was dead.

She lay and stared at the ceiling without seeing, her eyes fixed on the scrolls of the plasterwork; it could as well have been waves of the sea or summer leaves on a branch.

“Emily.”

She did not answer. What was there to say to anyone?

“Emily.” The voice was insistent.

She sat up. Perhaps replying would provide a diversion, an escape from her thoughts. She could forget for a few moments.

Aunt Vespasia was standing in front of her, Vespasia’s maid a little behind. She must have been there all the time—Emily could remember seeing her white cap and apron and her black dress last thing before she closed her eyes. She had brought her a drink—bitter—it must have had laudanum in it. That was why she had slept when she had thought it impossible.

“Emily!”

“Yes, Aunt Vespasia?”

Vespasia sat down on the bed and put her hand over Emily’s on top of the smooth, embroidered edge of the sheet. It looked very thin and frail, an old hand, blue-veined and spotted with age. In fact, Vespasia looked old; there were hollows of shock round her eyes, and the fine-grained skin that had for so long been blemishless was somehow shadowed.

“I have sent for Charlotte to come and be with you.” Vespasia was talking to her. Emily made an effort to listen, to understand. “I have sent my carriage for her, and I hope she will be here by this evening.”

“Thank you,” Emily murmured automatically. It would be better to have Charlotte here, she supposed. It did not seem to matter a lot. Nobody could change anything, and she did not want to be forced into doing things, making decisions, feeling.

Vespasia’s grip was tighter on her hand. It hurt. “Before that, my dear, Thomas will be here,” Vespasia went on.

“Thomas?” Emily repeated with a frown. “You shouldn’t have sent for Thomas! They’ll never let him in—they’ll be rude to him! Why on earth did you send for Thomas?” She stared. Had Aunt Vespasia been so shaken by grief she had lost all her common sense? Thomas was a policeman—in the eyes of the Marches little better than one of the less desirable tradesmen, on a level with other such necessary evils as a ratcatcher or cleaner of drains. She felt a sudden rush of pity for her, and anger that Aunt Vespasia, whom she admired so much, should be reduced to foolishness—and in the Marches’ house of all places. She gripped her hand tightly. “Aunt Vespasia ...”

“My dear.” Vespasia’s voice was very soft, as if she found it difficult to speak, and her eyes, with their magnificent hooded lids, were full of tears. “My dear, George was murdered. He can hardly have known it, or felt pain, but it is indisputable. I have sent for Thomas in his office as policeman. I pray that it will be he who comes.”

Murdered!
She formed the word with her lips, but her voice made no sound. George? Poor George! But why should anybody want to—