The mysterious man in the cloak had disappeared into the crowd, and the garbled accounts from various eye-witnesses made little sense to the confused constables.
Robert and Theodore went to the police station with the rest, and suddenly Adelia and Charlotte were left alone or at least unremarked as the crowds drifted away. Someone came to move the cab since the cabbie had been asked to step into the station-house, though whether it was arranged by a friend or it was just an opportunist thief, Adelia could not tell. She thought she ought to say something. But she was tired.
Grace came out of the gallery and found them both standing almost lost and unsure in the thinning crowd.
“Word is that the notorious double-murderess has been caught at last.”
“Notorious? No one knew except us, until now.”
“She’s notorious now and everyone claims to have known all along. Apparently Lord Lassiter and Lord Calaway were awfully dashing and daring.”
“They were, were they? In fact, Robert held a horse and Theodore opened the wrong door. We caught Mrs Dymchurch! We were threatened by a slattern with a club!” Charlotte cried in annoyance.
Suddenly Bamfylde was back. He was not wearing a cloak and he was smiling at Adelia. “I think that’s the way of it, isn’t it? It will be retold simply to keep your honour, dear ladies,” he said, a little mockingly, with a low bow.
“Oh, hush,” said Charlotte. “We all know it’s so the men can keep the glory to themselves and nothing more.”
“At least we know what we’ve done. That should be enough. Some secrets are all the better for the keeping of them,” said Bamfylde.
Grace bristled. “There are some secrets I want explaining to me immediately.”
“Me too. But all in good time,” said Adelia, distractedly, staring off down the dark road.
“Mama?”
“I recognised that young woman,” she said. She looked at Bamfylde. “The one with the club. She was in one of your paintings, Bamfylde.”
He nodded. “That is true. Sally Spencer. She is one of the worst turncoats I ever did meet; she modelled for me once and stole a watch. There’s not a household in London she hasn’t worked for, and passed on information to criminal gangs from the highest to the lowest.”
“And now she works for Mrs Dymchurch. A poor choice of employer.”
“That is strange,” he agreed. “For the last I had heard, she’d been working for Lady Purfleet.”
Adelia closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she wanted everything to make sense.
But nothing did. Exhaustion was settling on her shoulders. “I think we ought to go home. Grace, we will tell you everything in front of a warm fire. Bamfylde, will you...”
But he had already gone.
Twenty-six
It was Epiphany Eve, or Twelfth Night as the vulgar folk had it. The servants were turning the house upside down, removing all the decorations in a hurry; if any remained then bad luck would surely fall upon the family. The invitation to take tea at Mr Wiseman’s house came at an opportune time, therefore. Adelia was glad to leave the chaos behind and stroll through the damp London streets. Theodore was at her side, now fully recovered from the beating he had suffered at the hands of Lady Purfleet’s hired thugs.
Robert and Charlotte had also been invited. Charlotte wore more sensible boots this time. The pair of them had been more subdued since the events of the week previously, and Adelia recognised that their relationship was undergoing something of an adjustment. She had not tried to speak to Charlotte about it – not yet. She also recognised that their mother-daughter relationship was changing and it needed time to settle in. Both of them owed apologies to the other.
Both were too stubborn to make the first move.
And both recognised it: it was going to be all right, therefore. Adelia felt far more easy with her daughter, now, and she liked to think that Charlotte, too, had come to understand her mother a little better.
Mr Wiseman’s bruises had faded to grey and yellow blotches, though he still moved with a certain stiffness as he led them into a well-lit and comfortable parlour. He offered them champagne, and Adelia stiffened.
Theodore said, “Awfully generous of you, but it’s the middle of the day, and the festive season is well past us now ...”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate,” Adelia said. “We met through death and horror, and I can only imagine that you have invited us here to discuss how those matters have ended. Tea will fortify my nerves and be more respectful for the dead.”
“Ah, quite, quite.”
They settled themselves around the tea-table and picked over the offerings with a certain degree of listlessness. Even Theodore was clearly growing weary of such a succession of endless nice things and dainty treats. Adelia opted for a little potted cheese on some oatcakes. It was a common way to use up the dregs of the Christmas cheeseboard, mixing the random offcuts with a little sherry and mustard. It spoke of a sensibly thrifty cook. There was also a layered picnic pie that had clearly been made up of all the leftover meat of the past week or so. Robert took a large chunk of that, slathered with pickle.
“This Lord H,” Mr Wiseman said at last. “I really must ask. You know the fellow, don’t you? It was all rather confusing but I get the feeling ... I suspect ...”
Theodore glanced over at Charlotte and nodded. Adelia let her knee press against his, briefly, as an unspoken reassurance.
Charlotte did not look at Robert for his go-ahead, not this time. She spoke directly to Mr Wiseman. “He is my – he is my brother, Bamfylde Caxton, the eldest son of my father, Lord Calaway,” she said. “You can understand now why we felt the need for all the secrecy, I imagine.” She tipped her head back,
