banister and been seriously hurt-he was unconscious. Of course we know now he was dead.” She was still looking at Hester, watching her face. Now she looked away again. “Charles Hargrave got up immediately and went to see. We all sat there in silence. Alex was as white as a ghost, but she had been most of the evening. Louisa was very quiet; she turned and went, saying she was fetching Sabella down, she ought to know her father had been hurt. I can't really remember what else happened till Charles-Dr. Hargrave- came back to say Thaddeus was dead, and of course we would have to report it. No one should touch anything.”
“Just leave him there?” Edith said indignantly. “Lying on the floor in the hallway, tangled up with the suit of armor?”
“Yes…”
“They would have to.” Hester looked from one to the other of them. “And if he was dead it wouldn't cause him any distress. It is only what we think…”
Edith pulled a face, but said nothing more, curling her legs up a little higher.
“It's rather absurd, isn't it?” Damaris said very quietly. “A cavalry general who fought all over the place being killed eventually by falling over the stairs onto a halberd held by an empty suit of armor. Poor Thaddeus-he never had any sense of humor. I doubt he would have seen the funny side of it.”
“I'm sure he wouldn't.” Edith's voice broke for a moment, and she took a deep breath. “And neither would Papa. I wouldn't mention it again, if I were you.”
“For heaven's sake!” Damaris snapped. “I'm not a complete fool. Of course I won't. But if I don't laugh I think I shall not be able to stop crying. Death is often absurd. People are absurd. I am!” She sat up properly and swiveled around straight in the seat, facing Hester.
“Someone murdered Thaddeus, and it had to be one of us who were there that evening. That's the awful thing about it all. The police say he couldn't have fallen onto the point of the halberd like that. It would never have penetrated his body-it would just have gone over. He could have broken his neck, or his back, and died. But that was not what happened. He didn't break any bones in the fall. He did knock his head, and almost certainly concuss himself, but it was the halberd through the chest that killed him-and that was driven in after he was lying on the ground.”
She shivered. “Which is pretty horrible-and has not the remotest sort of humor about any part of it. Isn't it silly how we have this quite offensive desire to laugh at all the worst and most tragic things? The police have already been around asking all sorts of questions. It was dreadful-sort of unreal, like being inside a magic lantern show, except that of course they don't have stories like that.”
“And they haven't come to any conclusions?” Hester went on relentlessly, but how else could she be of any help? They did not need pity; anyone could give them that.
“No.” Damaris looked grim. “It seems several of us would have had the opportunity, and both Sabella and Alex had obviously quarreled with him recently. Others might have. I don't know.” Then suddenly she stood up and smiled with forced gaiety.
“Let us go in to tea. Mama will be angry if we are late, and that would spoil it all.”
Hester obeyed willingly. Apart from the fact that she thought they had exhausted the subject of the dinner party, at least for the time being, she was most interested in meeting Edith's parents, and indeed she was also ready for tea.
Edith uncurled herself, straightening her skirts, and followed them downstairs, through the big hall and into the main withdrawing room, where tea was to be served. It was a magnificent room. Hester had only a moment in which to appreciate it, since her interest, as well as her manners, required she give her attention to the occupants. She saw brocaded walls with gilt-framed pictures, an ornate ceiling, exquisitely draped curtains in claret-colored velvet with gold sashes, and a darker patterned carpet. She caught sight of two tall bronzes in highly ornate Renaissance style, and had a dim idea of terra-cotta ornaments near the mantel.
Colonel Randolph Carlyon was sitting totally relaxed, almost like a man asleep, in one of the great armchairs. He was a big man gone slack with age, his ruddy-skinned face partially concealed by white mustache and side whiskers, his pale blue eyes tired. He made an attempt to stand as they came in, but the gesture died before he was on his feet, a half bow sufficing to satisfy etiquette.
Felicia Carlyon was as different as was imaginable. She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband, no more than her mid-sixties, and although her face showed a certain strain, a tightness about the mouth and shadows around the large, deep-set eyes, there was nothing in the least passive or defeated about her. She stood in front of the walnut table on which tea was laid, her body still slender and rigidly upright with a deportment many a younger woman would have envied. Naturally she was wearing black in mourning for her son, but it was handsome, vivid black, well decorated with jet beading and trimmed with black velvet braid. Her black lace cap was similarly fashionable.
She did not move when they came in, but her glance went straight to Hester, and Hester was intensely aware of the force of her character.
“Good afternoon, Miss Latterly,” Felicia said graciously, but without warmth. She reserved her judgment of people; her regard had to be earned. ”How pleasant of you to come. Edith has spoken most kindly of you.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Carlyon,” Hester replied equally formally. “It is gracious of you to receive me. May I offer you my deepest sympathies for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Felicia's complete composure and the brevity with which she accepted made it tactless to add anything further. Obviously she did not wish to discuss the subject; it was deeply personal, and she did not share her emotions with anyone. “I am pleased you will take tea with us. Please be comfortable.” She- did not move her body, but the invitation was implicit.
Hester thanked her again and sat, not in the least comfortably, on the dark red sofa farthest from the fire. Edith and Damaris both seated themselves and introductions were completed, Randolph Carlyon contributing only what was required of him for civility.
They spoke of the merest trivialities until the maid came with the last of the dishes required for tea, paper-thin sandwiches of cucumber, watercress and cream cheese, and finely chopped egg. There were also French pastries and cake with cream and jam. Hester looked at it with great appreciation, and wished it were an occasion on which it would be acceptable to eat heartily, but knew unquestionably that it was not.
When tea had been poured and passed Felicia looked at her with polite enquiry.
“Edith tells me you have traveled considerably, Miss Latterly. Have you been to Italy? It is a country I should have liked to visit. Unfortunately at the time when it would have been suitable for me, we were at war, and such things were impossible. Did you enjoy it?”
Hester wondered for a frantic moment what on earth Edith could have said, but she dared not look at her now, and there was no evading an answer to Felicia Carlyon. But she must protect Edith from having appeared to speak untruthfully.
“Perhaps I was not clear enough in my conversation with Edith.” She forced a slight smile. She felt like adding “ma'am,” as if she were speaking to a duchess, which was absurd. This woman was socially no better than herself-or at least than her parents. “I regret my traveling was in the course of war, and anything but educational in the great arts of Italy. Although I did put in to port there briefly.”
“Indeed?” Felicia's arched eyebrows rose, but it would be immeasurably beneath her to allow her good manners to be diverted. “Did war oblige you to leave your home, Miss Latterly? Regrettably we seem to have trouble in so many parts of the Empire at the moment. And they speak of unrest in India as well, although I have no idea whether that is serious or not.”
Hester hesitated between equivocation and the truth, and decided truth would be safer, in the long run. Felicia Carlyon was not a woman to overlook an inconsistency or minor contradiction.
“No, I was in the Crimea, with Miss Nightingale.” That magic name was sufficient to impress most people, and it was the best reference she had both as to character and worth.
“Good gracious,” Felicia said, sipping her tea delicately.
“Extraordinary!” Randolph blew out through his whiskers.
“I think it is fascinating.” Edith spoke for the first time since coming into the withdrawing room. “A most worthwhile thing to do with one's life.”
“Traveling with Miss Nightingale is hardly a lifetime occupation, Edith,” Felicia said coolly. “An adventure, perhaps, but of short duration.”
“Inspired by noble motives, no doubt,” Randolph added. “But extraordinary, and not entirely suitable for a-a-”
