about her waist, when something made her glance over her shoulder. Ruthven de Vere was standing in the doorway.
'SHE HEARD HERSELF SAY, WITH PERFECT COOLNESS, though she knew it was hopeless: 'Ruthven, this is Mr Henry St Clair, the artist, who as you see has just completed my portrait. I was keeping it as a surprise for you. Henry, my husband, Mr Ruthven de Vere.'
'St Clair stood paralysed. De Vere did not, by so much as the flicker of an eyebrow, acknowledge his presence. He offered his arm to Imogen as if they were quite alone. She allowed herself to be led from the room, down the narrow rickety stairs and out to a waiting cab, without another word being spoken.
'They reached Belgrave Square, still in silence. She had resolved to answer no questions, respond to no threats, volunteer nothing. But with Arthur-still only thirteen, though thankfully away at school-as hostage, her resolve soon crumbled. Besides, she was in fear of her life. If he had raved and ranted, she thought she could have resisted, but de Vere's constraint was terrifying. There was a sibilance about his speech that reminded her of steam escaping from an engine, and when his spittle touched her cheek, it burned like acid.
'That one glimpse from the doorway of the studio had fired a train of suspicion that burned through hours of question and accusation, towards an insane conclusion. They were alone in his study; he had ordered the servants to admit no one, and to remain below stairs. Treating every denial as an admission, he forced the date of her meeting St Clair back and back through the years until he had persuaded himself that they had been lovers before he, de Vere, had even met her; from whence it followed inexorably that Arthur was not his child.
'She had refused, until then, to admit that she and St Clair had been anything more than friends. Now she saw, too late, that her denials had spurred her husband toward the most dangerous delusion of all. In that extremity, she believed that the only way to save Arthur's life was to surrender her own: if her husband strangled her, or beat her to death, then surely the police would lock him up and Arthur would be safe.
'So she told him the truth-exactly what truth, she did not say, and I did not ask-expecting him to strike her down. Instead he grew quieter; but still he pressed and pressed for an admission that St Clair had been her lover throughout the marriage until, goaded past endurance, she said 'No, but I wish he had been.
'He was standing over her as she spoke. She waited for the blow to fall, but without another word, he turned and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
'She rang repeatedly, but no one answered. Hours passed; she paced the room, rehearsing every imaginable horror. It was close on midnight before he returned.
''I have decided,' he said, 'that you will leave this house tomorrow morning. You will take your son away from his school-he will no longer be welcome there-and do with him as you please. But there are conditions.'
''First, you will sign over to me all of your property: every farthing not already assigned to me by your father; every jewel, every trinket, everything but the clothes you stand up in.
''Second, you will sign a paper confessing to your adultery with St Clair.
''Third, you will sign an undertaking never to see or communicate with St Clair again.
''Fourth, you will undertake never to communicate with any of our mutual acquaintance. You will leave London and never return. I wish it to appear that you and your son have vanished from the face of the earth.
''Defy me in any particular, and you will lose your son. I fear you have spoiled him, but it is not too late to remedy that. You will also be branded in court as an adulteress, and I will bring an action against St Clair for alienation of affection which will bankrupt him.'
''Why should I trust you?' she asked. 'Since you intend to be merciless in every other respect, why not keep Arthur, and make my punishment even more cruel?'
''Because as long as you have your son, you will live in fear of losing him. As you surely will, if you do not keep to the letter of our agreement. As for trust, you must rely upon my word as a gentleman-and hope that I will be more scrupulous than you have been about your marriage vows.'
'He had already prepared the papers. One by one he set them before her. She signed mechanically, fatalistically, scarcely bothering to read what he had written, and then declared that she would leave the house at once. But he insisted she remain that night, alone in her bedroom, to give her 'time for reflection. The bell, he said, had been disconnected, but she would find a cold supper waiting for her.
'Dizzy with fatigue and hunger, she dragged herself up to her room and bolted the door. There was also a connecting door between her bedroom and her husband's, opening into her room. It was locked already, but the key was missing.
'Despite her exhaustion, she had no intention of sleeping, but within minutes of eating her supper she felt overcome by an irresistible drowsiness. The food had been drugged. Fear lent her enough strength to drag a heavy chest across the connecting door. She collapsed onto her bed and sank into an abyss of darkness, from which she emerged the following morning with the sensation that her head was on fire. In the mirror she saw that her face and neck had turned a livid shade of purple.
'Her first thought was that her husband had exacted a terrible revenge. But the door into the corridor was still bolted on the inside; the chest stood where she had dragged it, blocking the connecting door; the window remained fastened on the inside, and from the sill to the area below was a sheer drop of thirty feet. The room was undisturbed, her pillow unmarked. Even if a corrosive spirit had somehow been introduced into the room, it could not have injured her so terribly without damaging the bedclothes.
'Then it occurred to her that she might have been poisoned as well as drugged. Apart from the burning sensation, she felt well enough, but how long would this last? Sick with horror, she dressed, put on a veil to hide her face, and despite her husband's threats, gathered up a few pieces of jewellery left to her by her mother, as well as all the money she had in her room.
'Thus far, she had not heard a sound from her husbands room, Listening at the other door, mustering the courage to open it and confront him-for surely he would be lurking outside-she became aware that the usual morning bustle was absent. Very quietly she undid the bolt and peeped out. The corridor was empty, the house completely still. All the way down to the front door she expected him to pounce, but no one appeared; for all the signs of life, the house might have been deserted, She let herself out into the street and secured a cab.'
THEODORE FELL SILENT. HE HAD BECOME SO ABSORBED in his own narrative that he continued to stare at, or rather through the portrait until Cordelia took his arm; then he turned slowly towards her like a man waking from a dream.
'I am very sorry, my dear. I fear I have said far more than I intended. The fact is, I was back in the drawing- room downstairs, thirty years ago, listening to Imogen. Even her voice was altered-by the illness, I mean-I had remembered it as a vibrant contralto; now she spoke in a hoarse, whispery monotone, all expression lost…'
'Uncle, why do you call it an illness? He
'I know, I know; and so your father always believed. But I asked a specialist privately, and he assured me there was nothing in nature that could produce such an effect. One man thought it might be Saint Anthony's Fire; another said it resembled a severe case of scalding, but her condition grew worse, not better, for weeks afterwards; we had a nurse here, all the time. Drugged or not, she would have woken instantly if she had been burnt… besides, there was no possibility of physical attack. No one could have got into that room.'
'Uncle, why did you say physical attack' like that? Do you mean she might have been attacked in some other way?'
'Not unless you believe… but no, no… I think we must put it down to a rare and horribly malignant infection, brought on by the strain of events.'
Cordelia wanted to ask what he had been going to say, but the recollection was plainly so distressing that she did not like to press him.
'And Henry St Clair?' she asked. 'Did she see him again? I suppose she must have, when he brought the picture here.'
'No, my dear, she did not. And it was not St Clair who brought it here. Which brings me to the part that concerns you.'
Cordelia's feet were numb with cold; her breath was clouding the chill air, but she did not want to break the thread. Serene, untouched, untroubled, Imogen de Vere gazed back at her while Uncle Theodore collected his thoughts.
'Of course she was desperate to let him know what had happened. Against my advice, she wrote to him the
