“But you two were taking up the mantle of justice! You said so!”
Theodore knew that Robert wouldn’t want his reasons to be explained to Mr Wiseman. Robert’s past involvement with Nettles could lie in darkness now. So he merely shrugged and said, “We tried. We agree with you that suspicion falls upon Mrs Dymchurch. But it was a targeted attack upon one person in particular and I doubt she poses any threat to anyone else. Why, she is hardly engaged upon a killing spree across the streets of London, is she? Furthermore, we have no real evidence to present to the police that would persuade them to re-examine the matter. You see, Mr Wiseman, there is nothing more that we can do.”
“But this is an outrage. I was poisoned. And a man was killed,” he added hastily.
Theodore spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “All that is true. Yet what would you have us do?”
“I – I don’t know. I just don’t think it ought to be allowed, that’s all.”
“You are right. It ought not to be allowed. Yet it is.”
“Preposterous. Inconceivable. I am an Englishman.”
“Well, yes.”
Mr Wiseman got to his feet, shaking his head continually, scowling. “No,” he said. “I do not know what should be done, but someone has to act.”
“Against Mrs Dymchurch?”
“Well. I don’t know. Yes! Yes, of course. Good day, gentlemen.” He picked up his hat and left before Robert could ring for someone to see him out of the room.
Theodore sat back. His last drink had worn off and his mouth was unpleasantly dry. “What do you make of that?”
Robert pursed his lips. “It makes me even more determined to leave everything very well alone. Everything.”
“Yes,” replied Theodore. “I concur.”
“But the problem is this: if that bally fool goes stirring things up again, we might find ourselves very much back in the thick of it.”
Theodore nodded. “Unfortunately, you may be right. We will watch and wait.”
Nineteen
Adelia’s social engagements were far more numerous and demanding than anything Theodore was expected to do. While he hid in corners cradling a nice glass of brandy or whisky, she was out in the thick of it, holding great sprawling family tree diagrams in her head while she conversed with everyone about absolutely everything.
She made sure to have read the best newspapers so she could talk knowledgeably about politics. She was up to date with the fashionable periodicals so she could chat wittily about clothes and trends. She knew who had lately been confined in childbed, and the outcomes, so that she could make the appropriate comments to the right people and their extended families. She knew which households had taken on new cooks so she could compliment the mistress of the house on their splendid meals. She knew who had been ill and who had been abroad, who had been unlucky in love and who was still seeking their happiness. She remembered Grace had admonished her for not knowing everything: and yes, it was seen as rudeness if one wasn’t up to date with it all.
She was pleased to find that Charlotte was already her equal in this regard. Of all her daughters, Charlotte was the one who was best at polite conversation. She understood the importance of how one dressed and how one carried oneself. She might reject many of the expectations of everyday society but she could only do so because she had a thorough understanding of those expectations. That was the only way one could chance being a slight rebel; Charlotte generally knew how far she could go.
Adelia admired her daughter’s careful dance with propriety and Bohemianism. She had not realised, until she had come to London, how skilful Charlotte was. Indeed, Charlotte’s joy and enthusiasm for the life she led did make Adelia happy, in spite of her current misgivings about what her daughter was hiding from her. Nervous, concerned for her future, but yes – happy, too.
Still, it was time for her daughter to move away from such frivolities, surely? And after the encounter with Digby Nettles and how badly that had gone, Charlotte ought to be facing her future with a little more level-headedness.
There was just that one little matter left to address.
The man in the hooded cloak.
Adelia let the truce between them last all through Boxing Day and Charlotte seemed grateful for it. It was the best for everyone to pretend that there was no tension between them. But the day after Boxing Day – the day before the dinner party Charlotte was to hold – was a strange, quiet, dead sort of day with no engagements to fill it.
Adelia seized her chance.
And Charlotte seemed to have been expecting the attack.
“Mama. Shall we take elevenses in the sitting room upstairs?”
“Overlooking the street?”
“Don’t pull that face. It won’t be too noisy and look, the sun’s out. The light falls most beautifully in that room during the morning. And we need to talk, don’t we? You’ve been eyeing me most ferociously for days.”
“Very well. Have you seen your father around?”
“Papa and Robert were smoking and talking in the study earlier. They are still obsessing about Mr Wiseman’s visit yesterday.”
“Wasn’t it curious?”
“Indeed. But let us move on.”
“Quite so.”
The conversation had become stilted as they once again skirted around the problem that was annoying Adelia. They made themselves comfortable in the room, Adelia choosing to put herself in a warm patch of sunlight while Charlotte, being young, had more care for her pale skin and she sat in a shadier spot. Cakes and scones were brought in, with a large pot of tea.
“Charlotte, I...”
“Mama, please. May I speak?”
Adelia pressed her lips together. No, was her immediate answer, but that would no longer wash. Charlotte was
