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?”
“No sir, not that I knows of. If you want ’im we can send a message. I spec’s ’e’s ’round Clerkenwell way. Far as I know ’e’s workin’ out o’ there lately.”
“No-no, I don’t want him. I just wondered. You’d better send Mr. Urban up.”
“Yessir, right away sir.”
Drummond had barely sat behind his desk when there was a sharp knock on the door, and as soon as he spoke, Urban came in. He looked pale and angry, more tense than Drummond could remember seeing him in the short time since he moved from Rotherhithe.
“What is it?”
Urban stood stiffly, his face strained, his hair untidy as if he had recently pushed his fingers through it.
“I’ve just been informed, sir, that the director of public prosecutions has written to the commissioner of police to inquire if Constables Crombie and Allardyce were committing perjury when they gave testimony against Mr. Horatio Osmar in the matter of his being accused of public indecency-sir!”
“What?” Drummond was stunned. He had been half expecting something unpleasant on the Weems case, some other public figure involved, or worse still, another member of the police. This was totally unforeseen, and ridiculous. “That’s absurd!”
