“I assume he does not meet with your approval?”
Her finely arched eyebrows rose and there was a gleam of humor in her eyes, too slight to reach her mouth. “Not for Tassie. She doesn’t love him, nor he her. But he’s pleasing enough, as long as one is sensible and doesn’t expect too much. He has one redeeming feature: I cannot imagine he will ever be a bore, and that is more than one can say of most socially acceptable young men.”
“Who else is there in the house?” He dreaded the answer, because if there had been any other outsider he knew Mrs. March would already have told him. No matter how she disapproved of Emily, she would never choose her for a cause of suicide had there been any other answer available. It reflected too badly on the family.
“No one,” Vespasia said very quietly. “Lavinia, Eustace, and Tassie live here; William and Sybilla were visiting for the Season. George and Emily were to be here for a month, and Jack Radley and I are here for three weeks.”
He could think of nothing to say. George’s murderer had to be one of the eight. He could not believe it was Vespasia herself-and please God it was not Emily!
“I had better go and see them. How is Emily?”
For the first time Vespasia could not look at him; she bent her head and hid her face in her hands. He knew she was weeping and he longed to comfort her. They had shared many emotions in the past: anger, pity, hope, defeat. Now they shared grief. But he was still a policeman whose father had been a gamekeeper, and she was the daughter of an earl. He dared not touch her, and the more he cared for her the more deeply it would hurt him if he trespassed and she were to rebuff him.
He stood helpless and awkward, watching an old lady racked with grief and the beginning of terrible fears.
Anyway, what could he say? That he would somehow alter things, hide the truth if it were too ugly? She would not believe him, or want him to do that. She would not expect him to betray himself, nor would she have done so in his place.
Then instinct overrode reason and he reached forward his hand and touched her shoulder gently. She was extraordinarily thin, for all her height when she stood; her bones felt fragile. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air.
Then he turned and went out of the room.
In the hall there was a girl of perhaps twenty, her hair the brilliant color of marmalade, her face pale under its dapple of freckles. She had hardly a shred of the beauty with which Vespasia had dazzled a generation, but she was just as thin, and there was perhaps an echo of the high cheekbones, the hooded eyelids. She was staring at Pitt with a mixture of horror and curiosity.
“Miss March?” he inquired.
“Yes, I’m Tassie March-Anastasia. You must be Emily’s policeman.” It was a statement, and phrased like that it was surprisingly painful.
“May I speak with you, Miss March?”
She gave a little shiver; her revulsion was not for him-her eyes were too direct-but for the situation. There had been a murder in her home, and a policeman must question her.
“Of course.” She turned and led the way through the dining room to the withdrawing room, cool and silver- green, utterly different from the suffocating boudoir. If that was the old lady’s taste, this must have been Olivia’s, and for some reason Eustace had permitted it to remain.
Tassie offered him a seat and sat down herself on one of the green sofas, unconsciously placing her feet together and holding her hands as she had been taught.
“I suppose I should be honest,” she observed, looking at the pale muslin of her dress. “What do you want to know?”
Now that it came to the moment, there was very little to ask her, but if she was like most well-bred young ladies she was confined to the house a great deal of the time with little to do, and she might be extremely observant. He debated whether to treat her delicately, obliquely, or frankly. Then he looked at the steady, slate-blue eyes and thought she was probably more like her mother’s family than her father’s.
“Do you think George was in love with your sister-in-law?” he said without preamble.
Her eyebrows shot up, but she retained her composure with an aplomb worthy of an older woman.
“No. But he thought he was,” she replied. “He would have got over it. I understand that sort of thing happens from time to time. One just has to put up with it, which Emily did superbly. I don’t think I should have been so composed-not if I loved someone. But Emily is terribly sensible, far more than most women, and infinitely more than most men. And George was-” She swallowed, and her eyes filled with tears. “George was very nice, really. I beg your pardon.” She sniffed.
Pitt fished in his breast pocket and brought out his only clean handkerchief. He passed it to her.
She took it and blew her nose fiercely. “Thank you.”
“I know he was,” he agreed, filling the silence before it became an obstacle between them. “What about Mr. Radley?”
She looked up with a watery smile. “I think he’s quite tolerable. In fact, as long as I don’t have to marry him, I daresay I should like him well enough. He makes me laugh-or he did.” Her face fell.
“But you don’t wish to marry him?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Does he wish to marry you?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t love me, if that is what you mean. But I will have some money, and I don’t think he has any.”
“How very candid you are.” She was almost worse than Charlotte, and he found himself wishing he could protect her from all the anguish that was bound to come.
“One should not lie to the police in matters of importance,” she said quite sincerely. “I was really very fond of George, and I like Emily, too.”
“Someone in this house murdered him.”
“Yes. Martin told me so-he’s the butler. It seems impossible. I’ve known them all for years-except Mr. Radley, and why on earth should he kill George?”
“Might he have imagined Emily would marry him if George were dead?”
She stared at him. “Not unless he is a lunatic!” Then she turned it over in her mind, realizing the only other possibilities. “But I suppose he could be. You can see very little indeed of some people in their faces, watching them do all the usual things everyone does, eating theirdinner, making silly conversation, laughing a bit, playing games, writing letters. There is a way of doing all these things, and you are taught it as a child, like the steps of a dance. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all. You can be any kind of person underneath it. It’s sort of uniform.”
“How perceptive you are. You are like your grandmother.”
“Grandmother Vespasia?” she asked guardedly.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” She breathed out in relief. “I am not in the least like the Marches. Have you solved anything?”
“Not so far.”
“Oh. Is that all? I should like to go and see how Emily is.”
“Please do. I shall find your brother, if I can.”
“He’ll be in the conservatory, at the far end. He has a studio there.” She stood up, and courtesy bade him stand also.
“Painting?”
“He’s an artist. He’s very good. He’s had several things in the Royal Academy.” There was pride in her voice.
“Thank you. I shall go and find him.” As soon as she had gone he turned to the row of French doors and the vines and lilies beyond. The conservatory felt humid and full of heavy growth and smelled of lush flowers and hot, perfumed air. The afternoon sun beat on the windows till it was like an equatorial jungle. In the winter a giant furnace maintained the temperature, and a pond the dampness.
William March was precisely where Tassie had said he would be, standing in front of his easel, brush in his hand, the sunlight making a fire of his hair. His thin face was tense, utterly absorbed in the image on his canvas; a
