sufficiently to look up at the sky.
The vicar's voice grew a trifle more rapid.
Garnet Royce was tense; there were lines of strain in his face more deeply etched than there had been after Lockwood Hamilton's death. He shifted uneasily, watching, glancing about as if every movement might be of some importance, as though searching might yield him an answer he needed so badly that the pursuit of it dominated his mind.
Was there some factor he knew of that Charlotte did not? Or was it merely that his intelligence made him fully aware of the magnitude of these horrors, more so than the other mourners, who were come from personal grief, or a sympathy born of a similar loss? But what about the other members of Parliament? Did they not know that the newspapers were clamoring for an arrest, that people wrote letters demanding a solution, more police, a restoration of law in the streets and safety for the decent citizen going about his duty or his pleasures? There was talk of treason and sedition, criticism of the government, of the aristocracy, even of the Queen! There were very real fears of revolution and anarchy! The throne itself was in jeopardy, if the worst rumors were to be believed.
Perhaps Royce could see what others only imagined?
Or did he guess at a conspiracy of a private nature, a secret agreement to murder for profit, or whatever three quite separate motives might drive three people to ally with each other to make all the crimes look like the work of one fearful maniac.
Then was Amethyst after all at the heart of at least her husband's death, either as the perpetrator, or the cause?
It was over at last, and they were walking back towards the vestry. The rain came harder, the glittering shafts silver
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where the light caught them. It was unseemly to hurry. Lady Mary Carfax put up her umbrella, swinging it fiercely round and swiping at Zenobia's skirt with the sharp ferrule. It caught in a ruffle and tore a piece of silk away.
'I do beg your pardon,' Lady Mary said with a tight smile of triumph.
'Not at all,' Zenobia replied inclining her head. 'I can recommend a good maker of spectacles, if you-'
'I can see perfectly well, thank you!' Lady Mary snapped.
'Then perhaps a cane?' Zenobia smiled. 'To help your balance?'
Lady Mary trod sharply in a puddle, splashing them both, and swept on to speak to the Cabinet Minister's wife.
Everyone was hastening towards the shelter of the church, heads down, skirts held up off the wet grass. The men bent their backs and tried to move as fast as was consistent with any dignity at all.
Charlotte realized with irritation that she had dropped her handkerchief, which she had taken out and held to her eyes from time to time so that she might observe Garnet Royce undetected. It was one of the few lace-edged ones she had left and far too precious to lose simply for the sake of keeping dry. She excused herself from Aunt Vespasia and turned to retrace her steps back round the corner of the church and along the track towards the grave.
She had just rounded the corner and was coming up behind a large rococo gravestone when she saw two figures standing facing each other as if they had met unexpectedly the instant before. The man was Barclay Hamilton, his skin ashen and wet with rain, his hair plastered to his head. In the harsh daylight the pain in him was starflingly clear; he looked like a man suffering a long illness.
The woman was Amethyst. She blushed darkly, then the blood fled from her face and left her as whke as he. She moved her hands almost as if to ward him off, a futile, flut-
E47
tering gesture that died before it became anything. She did not look at him.
'I. . . I felt I ought to come,' she said weakly.
'Of course,' he agreed. ''It is a respect one owes.'
