any balls or soirees, or held any parties for her, even though this was her first Season.
Then a new and very unpleasant thought occurred to her, so ugly she stopped in the middle of the path, quite unaware of being stared at by the gardener’s boy.
Was Phoebe aware of something from which she guessed who it was that had raped and murdered Fanny? Had she seen something, heard something? Or more likely, was it some episode remembered from the past that had led her to understand now what had happened, and with whom?
Surely the idiot woman would speak to the police. Discretion was all very well. Society would disintegrate without it, and everyone naturally disliked having anything to do with something as distasteful as the police. Still, one must recognize the inevitable. To fight against it only made the final submission the more painful-and obvious.
And why should Phoebe be prepared to protect any man guilty of such a horrendous crime? Fear? It hardly showed sense. The only safety lay in sharing such a secret, so it could not die with you!
Love? Unlikely. Certainly not for Afton.
Duty? Duty to him, or to the Nash family, perhaps even duty to her own social class, paralysis in the face of scandal. To be the victim was one thing-it could be overlooked in time-to be the offender, never!
Vespasia started to walk again, head down, frowning. All this was speculation; the reason could be anything, even as simple as the dread of investigation. Perhaps she had a lover?
But it was beyond doubt in her mind now that Phoebe was profoundly frightened.
To call upon Grace Dilbridge was unavoidable, but it was a dreary task and consisted of the usual almost ritual commiserations over Frederick’s bizarre friends and their incessant parties and the indignities to which Grace felt herself subjected, as she was excluded from gambling and whatever else unmentionable went on in the garden room. Vespasia rather overdid the vehemence of her sympathy and excused herself, just as Selena Montague was arriving, brilliant-eyed and quivering with life. She heard Paul Alaric’s name mentioned before she was quite out of the door and smiled to herself at the obviousness of youth.
It was necessary, of course, to call upon Jessamyn. Vespasia found her very composed and already out of total black. Her hair shimmered in the sun through the French windows, and her skin had the delicate bloom of apple blossom.
“How good of you, Lady Cumming-Gould,” she said politely. “I’m sure you would like some refreshment-tea or lemonade?”
“Tea, if you please,” Vespasia accepted, sitting down. “I still find it pleasant, even in the heat.”
Jessamyn rang the bell and gave orders to the maid. After she had gone, Jessamyn walked gracefully over toward the windows.
“I wish it would cool down.” She stared out at the dry grass and dusty leaves. “This summer seems to be going on forever.”
Vespasia was so practiced in the art of small conversation that she had an appropriate remark for any circumstance, but, faced with Jessamyn’s composure and delicate, stiff body, she knew she was in the presence of powerful emotion, and yet she did not fathom precisely what it was. It seemed far more complex than simple grief. Or perhaps it was Jessamyn herself who was complex.
Jessamyn turned and smiled. “Prophecy?” she inquired.
Vespasia knew immediately what she meant. It was the police investigation she was thinking of, not the summer weather. Jessamyn was not a person with whom to be evasive; she was far too clever, and too strong.
“You may not have intended it as such when you spoke.” Vespasia looked straight back at her. “But I dare say it will be the case. On the other hand, summer may slide quite imperceptibly into autumn, and we shall hardly notice the difference until one morning there is a frost, and the first leaves fall.”
“And it is all forgotten,” Jessamyn came back from the window and sat down. “Just a tragedy from the past that was never fully explained. For a while we shall be more careful about the manservants we hire, and then presently even that will pass.”
“It will be replaced by other storms,” Vespasia corrected. “There must always be something to talk about. Someone will make or lose a fortune; there will be a society marriage; someone will take a lover, or lose one.”
Jessamyn’s hand tightened on the embroidered arm of the sofa.
“Probably, but I prefer not to discuss other people’s romantic affairs. I find them a quite private matter, and not my concern.”
For a moment Vespasia was surprized, then she recalled that she never had heard Jessamyn gossiping of loves or marriages. She could only remember conversation of fashion, parties, and even on rare occasions matters of weight like business or politics. Jessamyn’s father had been a man of considerable property, but naturally it had all gone to her younger brother, since he was the male. It had been said at the time the old man died, years ago, that the boy had inherited the money, and Jessamyn the brains. He was a young fool, so far as she heard. Jessamyn had the better part.
The tea came, and they swapped polite reminiscences of the previous Season and speculations as to what the next turn of fashion might be.
Presently she took her leave and met Fulbert at the gateway to the drive. He bowed with amused grace, and they exchanged greetings, hers decidedly cool. She had had enough visiting and was about to continue on her way home when he spoke.
“You’ve been calling upon Jessamyn.”
“Obviously!” she replied tartly. Really, he was becoming fatuous.
“Most entertaining, isn’t it?” His smile widened. “Everyone is rushing back to their own private sins, to make sure they are still covered. If your policeman, Pitt, were the least interested in voyeurism, he would find this better than a peepshow. It is rather like undoing one of those Chinese boxes; each comes apart in a different way, and nothing is what it seems.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” she said coldly.
It was plain from his face that he knew she was lying. She understood him with exactness, even if she had no better than educated guesses as to what the sins in question might be. He did not seem to be offended. He was still smiling, and there was laughter in his face, even in the angle of his body.
“There is a great deal goes on in this Walk you don’t dream of,” he said softly. “The carcass is full of worms, if you break it open. Even poor Phoebe, although she’s too frightened to speak. One of these days she’ll die of pure fright, unless, of course, someone murders her first!”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Now Vespasia hovered between fury at his adolescent pleasure in shocking and a chill of quite real fear that indeed he knew something beyond even the worst imaginings of her own.
But he simply smiled and turned to walk up the driveway toward the door, and she was obliged to proceed on her way without an answer.
It was nineteen days after the murder that Vespasia came to the breakfast table with a frown on her face and an extraordinary wisp of hair trailing across her head completely out of place.
Emily stared at her.
“My maid tells me a most peculiar story.” Vespasia seemed not quite sure where to begin. She never ate a heavy breakfast, and now her hand hovered over the toast rack, then the fruit, but could not settle for either.
Emily had never seen her so out of countenance before. It was disturbing.
“What sort of story?” she demanded. “Something to do with Fanny?”
“I’ve no idea.” Vespasia’s eyebrows went up. “Not apparently.”
“Well, what is it?” Emily was growing impatient, not sure whether to be afraid or not. George had put down his fork and was staring at her, his face tight.
“It seems Fulbert Nash has disappeared,” Vespasia spoke as if she herself could hardly believe what she was saying.
George breathed out in a sigh, and the fork clattered from his hand.
“What on earth do you mean, disappeared?” he said slowly. “Where has he gone?”
“If I knew where he had gone, George, I would hardly say he had disappeared!” Vespasia said with unusual acerbity. “No one knows where he is! That is the point. He did not come home yesterday, although he had no dinner engagement that anyone knows of, and he has not been home all night. His valet says he has no clothes with him
