“Not for Scotland Yard,” I corrected hastily. “But for Sir Hugo from time to time. When he is confronted with a matter of such delicacy that he cannot involve himself personally.”
“But a young lady,” he repeated, stupefied.
“Who better? After all, if you were a villainous wretch bent upon some criminal mischief, would you suspect a lady with some refinement of being an agent of justice?”
He shook his head slowly. “I cannot say I would.”
“Exactly.” My tone was triumphant. “So, you see, Sir James, I am an experienced confidante. I have heard secrets which could topple the government, nay, the very Empire itself,” I said in a whisper charged with emotion. “You may trust me with whatever troubles you.”
I thought I had persuaded him. I had used both intellect and emotion, appealing to reason and feeling, and he was a susceptible fellow. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut.
I put a hand to his sleeve, startling him into looking directly at me.
“If you have received a set of cuttings, you might be in danger, Sir James. Won’t you let me help you?”
“Danger? My dear young woman, what sort of danger do you imagine I might be in?”
“If Lorenzo d’Ambrogio’s death was not an accident, someone may be exacting vengeance for him.”
He shied, drawing his arm swiftly away from my touch. “Rubbish,” he said almost angrily. “It is absolute rubbish. Lorenzo’s death was anaccident, and there is nothing else to say upon the matter.” He rose abruptly from the boulder. “I think I have had enough of the view. I shall leave you to enjoy it.”
He hurried on, but I did not bother to follow him. I had learnt something from my discussion that I doubted Stoker or Tiberius knew.
Sir James MacIver had received a set of cuttings of his own.
And Sir James MacIver was frightened.
CHAPTER
18
I found myself in much better spirits after my conversation with Sir James. Tiberius might jape at my burrowing about and asking questions as so much meddlesome interference, but even he had seen the effectiveness of my methods, and I had just been vindicated yet again. It had been my experience that gentlemen, particularly those of the upper classes, were heavily inclined to permit ladies more familiarity than they would indulge in another man. And if the lady were young and comely, she might ask him almost anything. If Sir James had had his wits about him, he would have curtailed our discussion, firmly returning us to a more appropriate topic. Instead, he permitted a frankly outrageous interrogation. He had lied, of course—gentlemen often do when the truth will make them look bad—but what is concealed is often more illuminating than what is revealed.
I was convinced, for example, that he had indeed received a set of cuttings identical to those sent to Tiberius. I was further persuaded Sir James had not shown them to his wife. Most gentlemen are apt to think of women as delicate, shrinking creatures whose sensibilities must be protected. I had little doubt Sir James was one of these. (The fact that Augusta clearly ran his household, reared his children,entertained on a lavish scale, and engaged in vigourous philanthropy would not penetrate the brain of such a fellow. He would still think her fragile whilst I observed Augusta possessed all the skills necessary for commanding a middling-sized battleship under enemy fire.)
I was still contemplating Augusta’s brisk virtues when I reached the village of Dearsley. After my cliff-top walk, I realised I was enjoying the brilliant sunshine far too much to partake in the formal luncheon indoors. Instead, I ate my sandwich in the cool shade of the Pineapple Pavilion and, dusting the crumbs from my fingers, decided to pay a call upon Elspeth Gresham. She was a curious woman, fussy and a little prickly, but I suspected her sharp eyes missed little, and as a young woman during the fateful house party some twenty years past, she might well have formed impressions of those in attendance. I was interested in her thoughts on the young men who had neglected her at that long-ago ball in favour of more attractive ladies such as Augusta, who must have been even handsomer in her youth.
As I reached the front gate of Wren Cottage, where the Greshams lived, I noticed several details I had missed upon first passing when we left the train station. A rambler rose, thick with late, saucer-sized pink flowers, grew over the arched gate, shrouding the entrance in blossom. It required only a few steps to carry one from the gate to the door, but in that space grew a profusion of country flowers. Buddleia and fuchsia clustered beside the sturdy stems of hydrangeas, and rosy geraniums nestled cheek to cheek with the fragrant petals of lavender. It was all tidy and free of weeds, carefully tended by an exacting hand. A handsome little Painted Lady drifted about the blossoms, butVanessa carduiis perhaps the most ubiquitous butterfly in existence. I watched its lazy progress for a moment before noticing a noise coming from the front door of the adjoining dispensary. It was housed in a long, low addition having little of the charm of the main cottage apart from a deep, latticed arbour fitted around the door, blooming thicklywith purple clematis. A shadow moved within, rapping smartly upon the door.
“Timothy, I say, Dr.Gresham, are you there?”
I recognised Augusta’s voice and called a greeting to her. She peered around the edge of the arbour, smiling when she caught sight of me. “Oh, hello, Veronica! If I had known you meant to come to the village, we might have walked together.” She came to where I stood upon the front step of Wren Cottage.
“I didn’t know myself until a few minutes ago,” I told her.
She nodded a trifle impatiently towards the dispensary. “I am supposed to meet Timothy to discuss his work at Milverton House. Do you know it?”
“No, but I heard a little of your conversation last night. An asylum for unbalanced ladies, I believe?”
“That’s the one. Ah well, I suppose Timothy must have been called away. The lot of a country doctor! Did you mean to call upon Elspeth? I may as well come with you.”
If I meant to question Elspeth discreetly, there was no hope for it now. I could not refuse Augusta’s company with anything approaching courtesy, so I merely smiled and gestured for her to precede me as I glanced over Wren Cottage.
The house itself bore the same attention to detail that made the garden so charming; the doorstep had been neatly scrubbed and the brass knocker polished to a high sheen. The knocker was a charming little dormouse, and my hand went instinctively to the tiny velvet mouse in my pocket. Chester had been my most constant companion, much loved and carried around the world and back. The fact that he had been mended once or twice with Stoker’s painstaking stitching only made him the more valuable. I stroked his back with a fingertip while Augusta rapped at the cottage door.
The windows of Wren Cottage were hung with starched curtainsof very white linen, and upon one sill perched a cat of lordly proportions. It looked down its nose at me as we waited upon the step. I had expected a maid to answer, but when the door swung open, Elspeth Gresham stood there. She was dressed in a well-washed gown of faded grey cotton, serviceable, but not flattering. A crocheted lace collar was her only offering at the altar of Vanity.
“Lady MacIver, Miss Speedwell,” she said in some surprise.
