“Shall I accompany you?” Jeremy asked.
“Please,” I said. “Just to the door.”
I tapped quietly on the wood and heard Mrs. Dalton call for me to enter. I took a deep breath, looked at Jeremy, and turned the handle.
“I’ll be right here when you’re done,” he said.
Sunlight spilled into the room, which overlooked the park. I resisted the urge to close the curtains. Much as I wanted to block the view of a place that would, for the Daltons, be forevermore hideous, plunging them into darkness didn’t seem an act that would offer much comfort.
“You only just missed the doctor,” Mrs. Dalton said. “My husband is much improved.”
“Entirely out of danger,” Mr. Dalton said, his head propped up on a tall pile of pillows. “He’s no longer concerned about internal bleeding.”
“I can’t tell you how refreshing it was to have some good news for a change,” Mrs. Dalton said, fairly beaming. “And I do hope you’ve come with more.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” I said. “We found Cordelia. I’m so sorry … I hardly know what to say.”
“No,” Mrs. Dalton said, rising to her feet. “Surely you can’t mean…?”
Her husband gripped her arm.
“I do. She’s dead.”
“Are you certain?” Mr. Dalton said. “How can they be sure it’s her?”
“Colin did a preliminary identification of the body.” I did not think it the appropriate time to tell him he would have to do the same, but officially.
“What … what did this monster do to her?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Mr. Dalton.”
“Did you see her?”
Tears spilled from my eyes. “I did. Not her face, just her back.”
“Where?” he asked, as his wife buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“Hyde Park,” I said. “My husband is there still, with Scotland Yard. He’ll be along as soon as he can and will give you any other information he’s learned.”
“I want to go home,” Mrs. Dalton said. “I want to go now. We don’t need protection any longer. We’ve nothing left to protect.”
“I understand how upset you are,” I said. “But please wait until you’ve spoken with Colin.”
“I won’t,” she said, standing up. “I won’t do anything else you tell me to. My daughter is dead, Lady Emily. And you did nothing to save her.”
21
The Daltons had exited the premises within half an hour. I didn’t try to stop them. If they wanted to face their grief in their own home, who was I to argue? I had Davis send word to Colin to go to them as soon as he was finished in the park, and then collapsed in tears in my library. Jeremy sat on the overstuffed arm of the leather chair onto which I had flung myself.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Em,” he said, picking up a small stone statue of a cat, the goddess Bastet, which Colin had purchased in Egypt years ago. “I’m not allowed to comfort you in any of the ways I’d ordinarily use in such a situation.”
“Do you find yourself often in this sort of situation?” I asked.
“Well, not precisely
Davis stepped into the room and Jeremy consulted with him in a voice too quiet for me to hear. My butler did not look pleased, but was not about to go against the wishes of a duke, and had soon returned to the room bearing a heavy tray.
“I can’t bring you Mr. Hargreaves’s favorite, sir,” Davis said. “Not without his express consent.”
“And what would his favorite be?” Jeremy asked.
“The Glenmorangie,” Davis said.
“A very good choice,” he said. “Would Lady Emily’s permission be enough?”
“It would not,” Davis said. “Just as his permission alone wouldn’t grant you access to Lady Emily’s finest port.” He bowed and left the room after having removed seven bottles and fourteen single malt glasses to the table next to Jeremy’s chair.
“I don’t want this, Jeremy,” I said.
“You only think that,” he said. “There’s no better way to forget what we saw. We’ll start with something from the West Coast Highlands.” He opened the bottle and poured a splash into each of two glasses. “Oban, because I’ve always thought it tastes like Christmas. Cheers.”
He downed his in one gulp. I sipped mine slowly.
“Thoughts?” he asked.
“It’s fine, but I’m always going to prefer port,” I said.
“I don’t think I like finding dead bodies, Em,” he said, refilling his glass. “I’m not suited to it.”
“Is anyone?”
“Your husband, apparently. You, possibly.” He took a large swig. “Finish that, Em, so we can move on to the next. But do try to pay attention to the taste.”
Mindlessly, I obeyed. The whisky burned in my throat and warmed my stomach.
“What you saw in France was worse, wasn’t it?” he asked. The previous summer I’d found the brutally savaged body of a young woman. The image still came to me in nightmares.
“Much worse.” I held my empty glass out to him. He took it from me and replaced it with another.
“Glenkinchie,” he said. “You’ll find this quite different. It has an almost grassy sweetness.”
I sipped. “Grass?”
“With a bit of straw on the finish,” he said. “Gorgeous.”
“Mrs. Dalton was very angry with me,” I said.
“She wasn’t angry with you, Em. She’s angry with the wretch who killed her daughter.”
“I know you’re right,” I said. “But I feel so much guilt. I’m consumed with it.”
“Is there anything more you could have done?”
“There must have been something, or she’d still be alive.”
“I don’t agree,” he said, filling the third set of glasses.
“I can’t keep up with you,” I said.
“It won’t go bad. You can take your time.”
“I didn’t believe he’d hurt her,” I said, tears welling up again. Jeremy, who was now sitting across from me, leaned forward and wiped them away with his thumb.
“Of course you didn’t. What civilized person could believe otherwise?” He passed me the next glass. “This is my favorite of what we have at our disposal. Thought I should give it you sooner rather than later or you might not be in a state to adequately appreciate it.”
I took a sip and cringed.
He smiled. “Laphroaig 27 year. The strongest-flavored whisky I’ve ever had. Smoke and peat.”
“Am I supposed to think drinking something that tastes like peat is a good idea?”
“It’s an excellent idea,” he said. “Take another taste. Slowly.”
I did as he instructed. “It’s so strong!”
He pulled two cigars out of his pocket. “Do you think Davis would forgive me, just this once?”
“Absolutely not,” I said. “But I will not stand for you telling me that matters right now.”
I found the whisky much improved by the addition of the cigars. Although the effect might, too, have been caused by the quantity ingested—Jeremy did insist he was pouring very small amounts, but I was unused to this
