“You are talking nonsense, Grandmama.” William spoke for the first time since they had come into the dining room. In fact, as far as either Emily or Charlotte could recall, he had not spoken at breakfast either. He looked ghostlike, as if Sybilla’s death had taken all his own vitality as well. Charlotte had said earlier that she was afraid he might collapse at the funeral, so gaunt did he seem.
The old woman swung round on him, opening her mouth, but then she registered the expression on his face and closed it again.
“I, for one, don’t know that it was Emily,” he went on. “The motive of jealousy you credit to her might equally well do for me, although in fact it doesn’t. The affair was trivial at best, and over with anyway, which both Emily and I knew. You may not have, but then it was none of your business.” He stopped and took a sip from his glass of water; his voice was rough, as though his throat ached. “And the other motive you imagine for her, that of an infatuation with Jack; while quite believable-she would certainly not be his first conquest-”
“William!” Eustace shouted, banging his hand flat on the table to make as much noise as possible and sending the silver and crockery jumping. “This conversation is in the worst possible taste. We are all prepared to allow your grief some latitude, but this is beyond bearing!”
William stared back at him with burning contempt, his eyes brilliant, his mouth pinched with violent emotion long held in and hidden.
“Taste is a personal thing, Father. I find many of your conversations as ‘distasteful’ as anything I have ever said in my life. I frequently find your hypocrisy quite as obscene as all the vulgar picture postcards of naked women. They, at least, are honest.”
Eustace gasped, but was not quick enough to stem the tide of anger. He was aware of Charlotte next to him, because she had pushed out her foot under the table to kick him fairly sharply on the ankle. The ridiculous scene under Sybilla’s bed was not allowed to fade for a moment from his memory. He clenched his teeth and remained silent.
“But as a motive it is hardly worth murder,” William went on. “She could perfectly well have had Jack as well, if she had wanted him-and there is no evidence that she did. Whereas, on the contrary, if he had wanted her-or to be more accurate, George’s money, which she inherits-then he had an excellent reason for murdering George.”
Emily sat rigid, acutely aware of Jack Radley beside her, conscious that he had stiffened in his seat. But was it guilt, or embarrassment, or simply fear? Innocent people were hanged sometimes. Emily herself was afraid; why should not he be?
But William was not finished. “Personally,” he went on, “I favor Father. He had excellent reasons, which just in case he is innocent, I shall not discuss.”
There was total silence round the table, Vespasia set down her knife and fork, touching her napkin delicately to her mouth once and lying it aside. She looked at William and then down at the tablecloth, but she said nothing.
Eustace was pale and Charlotte could see his fists were clenched in his lap. The veins stood out on his neck till she feared his collar would strangle him, but he also did not speak.
Tassie hid her face. Mrs. March was scarlet, but for some reason afraid to break the silence. Perhaps nothing she dared say was adequate to her outrage.
Jack Radley looked wretched and acutely embarrassed, the only time Charlotte had seen his composure completely shattered. Although she was perfectly aware how likely it was that he was guilty-not only of double murder but of the most callous abuse of a woman’s emotions, and that he had fully intended to abuse them further-still she liked him better for seeing him at a loss. It gave him a reality beneath the charming smile and the marvelous eyes.
Emily stared straight ahead of her.
In the end it was the footman with the next course who broke the silence, and the meal proceeded with a saddle of mutton no one tasted and a trivial conversation no one could have recalled a moment after it was spoken.
After the dessert Emily excused herself and retired to the rustic seat in the garden, not because it was a pleasant day-indeed it was overcast and seemed very likely to rain-but because she felt it her best chance of being alone, and there was no one whose company she desired.
Tomorrow was Sybilla’s funeral; she stayed because she wished to attend it. Now that Sybilla was dead, all Emily’s hatred of her had vanished. The ridiculous affair with George had receded to a far different proportion of importance. He had regretted it. He had been robbed of the chance to undo it, so she would wipe it out for him, cherishing all the other memories that were good. They had shared a great deal; if she allowed Sybilla to rob her of all those things, then she was a fool, and she deserved to lose them.
She had not seen Charlotte alone since Pitt called that morning, except for an instant as they came through the hall towards the dining room. But that had been enough to learn that he still had little idea who had murdered George, or why. Presumably it was the same person who had then killed Sybilla. She must have known something which the killer could not afford her ever to tell.
That did not exclude anyone. Sybilla was a clever and observant woman. She may have understood some word or act that had eluded the rest of them, or even been told something by George.
What could George have known? Emily sat hunched up in the damp, rising wind, pulling her shawl round her and raking through every possibility her mind could imagine, from the absurd to the horrific. At the end she was still left with Jack Radley, and her own clumsy complicity, or else William’s rather wild attempt to blame Eustace-and she was obliged to admit she believed that born more of hatred than sense.
She did not hear Jack Radley approach, and only when he was almost above her did she realize he was there. He was the last person she wanted to speak to at all, still less be alone with. She pulled her shawl even tighter round her and shivered.
“I was just thinking of going inside,” she said hastily. “It is not very pleasant. I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains.”
“It won’t rain yet.” He sat down beside her, refusing to accept dismissal. “But it is cold.” He slipped off his jacket and put it gently round her shoulders; it was still warm from his own body. She thought his hand lingered a moment longer than necessity required.
She opened her mouth to protest but did not, unsure that she would not be making herself ridiculous. After all, they were in clear view of the house, and she had no reason to wish herself back there. Luncheon had been ghastly, and no one would believe she wanted to pursue its conversations. And he had removed from her the excuse of being cold.
He interrupted her train of thought. “Emily, have the police any idea who killed George yet? Or were you just defying the old woman?”
Why was he asking? She wanted to be free to like him; she felt a happiness in his company like sunlight through a garden door at the end of a long passage. Yet she was terribly afraid it was deceptive.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t see Thomas this morning, and I only spoke to Charlotte for a moment as we came in to luncheon. I have no idea.” She forced herself to face him; it was just a fraction better than imagining his eyes.
His expression was full of concern. Was it for her or for himself?
“What did Eustace mean?” he said urgently. “Emily, for heaven’s sake think! I know it wasn’t me, and I refuse to believe it was you. It has to be one of them! Let me help you, please. Try to think. Tell me what William meant.”
Emily sat paralyzed. He looked so earnest, but he had lived by his charm for years; he was a superb actor when it was in his own interest. And this could be a matter of survival. If he had killed George they would hang him. The fact that she liked him did not cloud reason. Some extremely virtuous people could also be extremely boring, and admire them as one might, one shrank from their company. And the cruelest people could be very funny-until the essential ugliness snowed through.
He was still talking, his eyes on her face. Could she look at him and keep the balance to disbelieve? She had always had sense, far more sense than Charlotte. And she was a better actress, more skilled in masking her own feelings.
She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t know. I think he just hates Eustace and would like it to be him.”
“That leaves only old Mrs. March,” he said very quietly. “Unless you think it was Tassie, or Great-aunt Vespasia. Which you don’t.”
