hand, the one who had murdered him and left him so absurdly on the Serpentine?
She saw several naval officers in uniform, looking very splendid, their gold braid making them stand out from the plain black of civilians. One large, curiously nondescript elderly man seemed to be presiding over the matter of welcoming and acknowledging people. He must be Lord Marlborough Winthrop, the father. The woman beside him, heavily veiled, was slender and very upright, but that was all that could be distinguished of her. Charlotte fancied she detected an aura of anger, a watching with pent-up rage, uncertain yet in which direction to level itself. But it could as easily have been the self-control of grief and the knowledge of more anguish to come, and inevitably a very public resolution to a most personal loss.
She was still pondering this when Vespasia arrived on Thelonius’s arm. It was not an occasion for smiling, but Charlotte found herself doing so at the sight of Vespasia so graciously accompanied. She had been a widow since long before Charlotte had first met her, years ago, during the grotesque affair in Resurrection Row. And later George’s death had wounded her deeply. He was no more than a great-nephew, but one of the few family she had, and she had been extremely fond of him. And regardless of consanguinity, murder is a dreadful way to die, even without the fear and suspicion that had followed.
Now, on the arm of Thelonius, Vespasia looked serene and confident again, her back as ruler straight as it had been years ago, and there was an imperious lift to her chin as though once again she would defy the world in general, and society in particular, and be perfectly prepared to blaze a trail in whatever direction she chose to go. Those who cared to could follow, and those who did not could go whichever way they pleased.
Thelonius, slender, ascetic, dryly humorous, was at her elbow, his face rendered almost beautiful by the richness of memory which illuminated it as he guided her through the press of people. More and more were arriving, wishing not to be absent from such an occasion, reverent, sympathetic, self-important or hoping for scandal.
Vespasia looked at Charlotte approvingly, but without words. Thelonius smiled at her and inclined his head, and together the three of them made their way into the church, where the painfully slow organ music was already creating the atmosphere of death and something close to decay.
Charlotte shivered. As so often before, her thoughts turned to the anomaly of people who professed a belief in a joyous resurrection meeting together to mark the passing of one, whom most had known only slightly, from where they deemed a vale of tears and into a realm of light. It said little of their estimation of his deserts that they did it with such intense and irrational gloom. One day she would ask a vicar why it was so. An usher with heavy side- whiskers nodded busily and indicated his desire to move them towards their pews. He shifted unhappily from one foot to another.
“Sir! Madam—if I may?”
Thelonius handed him his card.
“Of course. Of course.” The usher nodded. “This way, if you please?” And without waiting to see if they followed, he led the way towards the point where a pew had been kept for them. On the way Charlotte glanced to the right and saw Emily’s fair face filled with surprise, and then swift and complete comprehension, not untouched by amusement.
Vespasia and Thelonius took their seats, and with rather more haste than grace, Charlotte took hers beside them.
The music changed key and a hush fell over the congregation. The service began.
It was not possible during its course for Charlotte to twist around in her seat and observe the faces of anyone behind, and those in front presented only their backs. Rather than draw unwelcome attention to herself, she bent her head in decent prayers and lifted her eyes only to watch the vicar and listen to his sepulchral tones as he eulogized Oakley Winthrop as if he were a departed saint, and exhorted all those present to live worthily of his excellent example. Charlotte dared not look at Vespasia in case she met her glance and read her thoughts, not only of the departed but of the mourners.
Afterwards was a different matter. Everyone rose and trooped out into the sunshine murmuring whatever they felt appropriate, and then she began to search in earnest. Lord and Lady Winthrop were easy to see from the movement of people, the slowing down as they reached them, and the sudden complete hush, momentary embarrassment, and then release as they moved away.
Another group, smaller and somehow less distinguished, was moving in no particular order around a slender, very upright figure. She was only lightly veiled, and looked oddly young and vulnerable. Charlotte took her to be the widow. She would dearly like to have seen her expression, but beneath the veil it was impossible.
“Is that Mrs. Winthrop?” she asked Vespasia.
“I believe so,” Vespasia answered, looking to Thelonius.
“And the man behind her?” Charlotte asked with interest.
“Oh yes.” Vespasia nodded fractionally. “A face to remember. A clarity of gaze, a considerable intelligence, I think. Who is he, Thelonius? A relation, or an admirer?”
Thelonius’s mouth twitched with amusement.
“I’m sorry, my dear, the answer is very ordinary. He is her brother, Bartholomew Mitchell. A man of unblemished character, without pomposity or pretension, so I hear. Very recently returned from Matabeleland. A most unlikely suspect for the murder of his brother-in-law.”
“Mmm.” Vespasia remained thoughtful.
“Now there’s a man about whom you could not possibly say that.” Charlotte looked across at the large figure smiling and nodding as he acknowledged acquaintances on all sides. “There is a man with pretensions, if ever I saw one. Who is he?” Too late she realized he might have been a friend of Thelonius. “I mean …” She stopped. There was nothing to say that would mend it.
Vespasia bit her lip to conceal her amusement.
“You deserve to be told he is a dear friend,” she replied. “However, I believe he is a prospective member of Parliament, in fact standing against Jack in the by-election. His name is Nigel Uttley.”
“Oh.” Charlotte thought for a moment before continuing. She watched Uttley as he progressed through the crowd, still smiling, until he came to Emily and Jack, then his expression of affability became a mask. The core of it vanished, leaving only the outer semblance. It was impossible to say in what precise way it was different, except that it seemed without life. They were not close enough for Charlotte to hear what was said, but it appeared to be trivialities.
