Victor looked startled.
Thora colored uncomfortably and frowned at her as if she had not totally understood.
“Sometimes accidents are caused by carelessness,” Emily explained. “And regardless of that, we do need to be responsible for what we do. Do you not agree? We cannot expect others to bear the brunt.”
“It is not always so easy …” Thora began, then stopped.
Victor shot Emily a charming smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. I think you have said it exactly. A lack of care, that is it. One must be responsible. Honesty, that is the key to it all.”
“Do you not know who bruised your cello?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I know.”
Thora looked puzzled. “Victor …”
But before he could answer, they were interrupted by a stout woman with remarkably black hair.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Radley, I simply had to say how much I appreciated Mr. Radley’s speech yesterday. He was so very correct about the present situation in Africa. It is years since I listened to anyone with such a grasp of the essentials.” She ignored Victor as if he had been a domestic servant, and apparently did not even realize Thora was part of the group. “We need more men like that in government, as I was just saying to my husband.” She waved an arm airily towards a tall, thin man with a prominent nose. He reminded Emily of pictures she had seen of vultures. He was dressed in military uniform. “Brigadier Gibson-Jones, you know?” The woman seemed to assume that the name would be familiar.
Actually Emily had no recollection of either the brigadier or his wife, and therefore was most grateful to be reminded of their name. She was about to say something suitably agreeable, and to introduce Victor and Thora, but as if suddenly aware of a breach of good manners, Mrs. Gibson-Jones turned to Victor.
“Are you going to play for us? How jolly. I think music always lifts an occasion, don’t you?” And without waiting for an answer, she moved away, having caught sight of someone else with whom she wished to confer.
Emily turned to Victor.
“I’m sorry,” she said in little more than a whisper.
Victor smiled; it was sweet and dazzling, like a broad beam of sunlight. “What does she think I’m going to play—a jig?”
“Can you see her dancing to a jig?” Emily asked almost under her breath.
Victor’s smile became a grin. He seemed at least temporarily to have forgotten the subject of the cello and the bruise.
Emily excused herself to both of them and set about the business of being charming. She moved from group to group, exchanging greetings, inquiries after health, small chatter of fashion, children, the weather, court and society, matters of the usual exchange in civilized conversation. She saw Jack speaking with men of wealth, good family, connections of every sort, both open and discreet. For a moment she wondered again how many of them were members of the Inner Circle, which of them knew who else was, who walked in fear or guilt, who owed dark loyalties, who was prepared to betray. Then she dismissed it from her mind. There was no purpose in it.
“We need change,” she overheard a thin man say, adjusting his spectacles on his nose. “This police force is simply not good enough. Good heavens, when a man of the distinction of Oakley Winthrop can be hacked to death in Hyde Park, we are sinking into anarchy. Complete anarchy.”
“Incompetent officer in charge,” his thickset companion agreed, looping his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, leaving his jacket flapping. “I shall table a question in the House. Something must be done. It is getting so a decent man cannot take a walk after dark. Murmur and whispers everywhere, talk of anarchists, bombs, the Irish, everyone suspicious of his neighbor. Whole world in turmoil.”
“I blame the asylums,” a third man put in vehemently. “What kind of a lunatic is it who can do such things and remain at large? That is what I should like to know. Nobody’s doing a damned thing about it.”
“Have you heard Uttley on the subject?” the first man asked, looking from one to the other of his companions. “He’s right, you know. We need some changes. Although I cannot agree about the lunatic. I rather think it is a purposely sane and very evil man. Mark my words, there is some connection between the victims, whatever anyone says.”
“Really, Ponsonby?” The thickset man looked surprised. “I thought this second feller was a musician? Rather good. Did you know Winthrop? Naval feller, what?”
“Odd chap,” Ponsonby said, pulling a face. “Decent enough family, though. Father’s making a fuss, poor devil. Taken it hard. Can’t blame him.”
“Did you know him?”
“Marlborough Winthrop?”
“No, no, Oakley, man. The son!”
“Met him once or twice. Why? Didn’t care for the chap greatly. Bit overbearing, you know.”
“What, very naval, and all that? Still thinks he’s on the quarterdeck?”
Ponsonby hesitated. “Not really, just had to be the center of things, always talking, always expressing his opinions. Only met him two or three times. Met the brother-in-law, actually. Name of Mitchell, as I recall. Interesting feller. Deep. Been in Africa until very lately, so I believe.”
“Deep? What do you mean deep?”
“Thought a lot more than he said, if you know what I mean. Couldn’t abide his brother-in-law. Gave me some good financial advice, though! Put me onto an excellent man in the city, feller by the name of Carvell. Bought me some very good shares. Done well.”
“Very useful, that—what.”
