‘Thomas? Of what? He can remember Resurrection Row, and the bodies all over the place, not to mention various other … irregularities since.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘Irregularities! What a wonderful term for them! Yes, my dear, Somerset Carlisle has an art for irregularities that amounts to genius. What injustices does he care about enough to do this?’
‘I don’t know: murder, betrayal, corruption at the highest level, treason?’ The moment she said that last word she wished she had not. ‘Or perhaps some personal debt of honour. He wouldn’t tell me, and place me in the position of having to betray his trust in order to stop him.’
‘But he would use Pitt, who showed him such unwise compassion before?’
‘Maybe that’s why Somerset rescued him from Talbot?’ she suggested.
‘You are being too idealistic,’ Narraway replied sadly. ‘He is perfectly prepared to use Pitt because he needs him, but I wish we knew for what purpose.’ He looked at her steadily and this time she did not look away. It was an admission of something, a difference in the relationship between them and she was not as afraid of it as she had expected to be. In fact she felt a relaxing of tension inside herself, almost a warmth.
‘We are going to do something about it, aren’t we?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ she answered. ‘I think we have to.’
Again his fingers touched hers across the table, just tip to tip. ‘Then you must begin,’ he told her, ‘with Carlisle. I shall find out a great deal more about Mr Talbot.’
She smiled. ‘Indeed.’
The following morning over breakfast Vespasia returned her mind to the question of Kynaston and his involvement in Pitt’s case. She was concerned primarily for Pitt, because she was troubled by a fear that there was some element in it far more dangerous than a simple illicit affair. However, she had no idea yet what it was, except that it was ugly enough to provoke a particularly grotesque murder.
Which was why it also troubled her that Jack Radley had apparently been offered a position working more closely with Kynaston. She had grown fond of Jack for himself, but she would care about him regardless because he was married to Emily, and Emily’s first marriage had been to Lord George Ashworth, who had been her nephew. The close affection had remained after George’s death. Indeed, she now felt the same kind of bond with Charlotte also, perhaps even closer. They were in some ways more alike in nature.
If Kynaston were guilty in any way of Kitty Ryder’s death, then the stain of it would extend to those close to him professionally. And because of this suspicion, she could not rid herself of the fear that this ugly affair was more than a personal matter. Somerset Carlisle might deplore the betrayal of an affair, but she believed he would not appoint himself to any kind of judgement regarding it. He was too wise to imagine such things were one- sided.
Was to suspect Carlisle in this the inevitable result of common sense, or was it an unfair prejudice, a leap to conclusions based on the past?
She was not hungry. The crisp toast sat uneaten in the rack, all except for one piece taken with her boiled egg. Only the hot, fragrant tea appealed to her. This morning she must see Somerset Carlisle and ask him exactly how he was involved, and oblige him either to tell her the truth or to lie to her. If for some reason, even a good one, he lied, then that would open a chasm between them, perhaps narrow, but a division nevertheless, and something that could never again be completely closed. It would break a thread of trust that had been there for years, delicate and strong, like silk, throughout all kinds of fortune, good and bad.
She had not appreciated before quite how precious that was to her. She had scores of acquaintances, but they had not known the people Vespasia had wept for. They had not lain awake at night, cold with dread because they knew what had actually transpired, and the terror that had not come to pass. For them it was not life, it was the pages of history.
Not that Carlisle was her age — he wasn’t — but he had a fire, an idealism, for which he was willing to risk his own comfort, even his life. She admired him for that, and she was obliged to admit she liked him deeply. She did not yet wish to know exactly how he was involved in Dudley Kynaston’s life, or what he knew about Kitty Ryder.
If she faced it with any degree of honesty, she was not yet prepared to deal with that knowledge. So long as she did not ask, she had left herself room to believe as she wished. Once she knew, she would be obliged to speak to Pitt and tell him all she was aware of and for which there was proof.
And yet, of course, if she did not, then she was responsible for what occurred out of his innocence.
Was Pitt naïve? No, that was not the word, he was simply not as subtle and devious of mind as she was — or Carlisle.
Even the tea ceased to appeal to her. She rose from the table and walked out of the yellow dining room and across the hall to the stairs. It was too early yet to see Carlisle. First she would address the problem of Emily’s unhappiness.
Emily was delighted she had come, and welcomed her into the magnificent hallway with its marble floor and sweeping double staircases. Emily was so pleased, Vespasia immediately felt guilty that she had come for a very specific purpose. If Emily had any suspicion of that, she gave no sign of it at all.
‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she said warmly. She looked well, if a little pale. ‘I get so tired of snatching a word or two at some function, and having to be polite to everyone else. Although that play was fun, wasn’t it? I enjoyed watching the audience almost as much as the stage.’
She led the way into a garden room, which was light and airy, even in this wintry February where brief bars of sunlight shone between bands of cloud. The fire was burning and the air was warm. If one closed one’s eyes it was possible to believe in the illusion of summer. Vespasia was flattered that the shades so closely resembled those she had chosen for her own sitting room, which also faced on to the garden. They were subtle and yet there was depth to them, and nothing seemed chill or bleached of life.
‘Indeed, so did I,’ she agreed, sitting in one of the chairs by the fire and, when she was comfortable, Emily took the other. She was facing the light and Vespasia noted a tightness in her skin. It was perhaps due to nothing more than the usual effects of winter when one went outside less often, and riding in the park was hardly a pleasure. There was no grey in Emily’s fair hair, but there were tiny lines in her delicate skin and a shadow in her eyes.
‘Did you come for any special reason?’ Emily asked. She was a little more direct than her usual manner. After her encounters with Charlotte, was she afraid that there might be?
‘No, but if there is something you wish to speak of then I am always happy to hear.’ Vespasia practised the sort of evasion she had perfected over the years, both in society and within family. There were so many things one approached only in circles.
Emily smiled and relaxed a little. ‘Loads of gossip,’ she answered lightly. ‘Did you hear that wonderful story from America in the newspaper?’
Vespasia hesitated for a moment, uncertain if there were something behind Emily’s remark. ‘I hope you are about to tell me,’ she answered.
‘You haven’t?’ Emily said happily. ‘That’s marvellous. It’s absolutely gruesome. Her name was Elva Zona Heaster. Her death was ruled natural, but her mother claimed that her ghost came back and said her husband had broken her neck.’ Emily smiled and her eyes were dancing. ‘And to demonstrate, the ghost turned its head right around as she was describing her death, and walked away forwards, but with her head on backwards, still talking to her mother!’
Vespasia stared at her, incredulous.
‘In a little town in West Virginia,’ Emily continued. ‘Honestly! That’s more interesting than that Margery Arbuthnott is about to marry Reginald Whately, which is probably totally predictable.’ Suddenly there was a flat note in her voice as the laughter vanished.
Vespasia affected not to have noticed. ‘It seems to be a very repetitive cycle,’ she agreed. ‘And unless you know them well, it is not interesting. I used to find it easier to pretend I cared than I do now. It seems to me there are so many things more important.’
‘What is important, Aunt Vespasia?’ Emily said with a slight shrug. It was an elegant gesture, very feminine, and yet there was a thread of hurt through it, something deeper than the words.
‘Anything that concerns those you love, my dear,’ Vespasia answered. ‘But that is not for social
