“Who on earth would carry a story like that—” I broke off, flicking an unwilling look at J. J.
It took only a moment for her to interpret the implication. When she did, she turned an unattractive shade of puce, then very white, the colour draining from her face and leaving her freckles to stand out, livid, against the parchment paleness of her skin.
“How dare you,” she said softly. “After all I have done? All the secrets I have kept? All the promises I have honoured? Even now you doubt me? Julien is myfriend.”
Before I could speak, she fled, pushing past Stoker as if he were made of papier-mâché.
I sighed. I should have to make amends for that, but reconciling with J. J. was a problem for another hour. Together we hefted Julien to his feet and Stoker put an arm around his waist, pulling Julien’s arm over his shoulders.
“There you are, my friend,” Stoker coaxed. “Come along with me to the kitchens. We will have some food and some black coffee, good strong stuff.”
Julien gave a deep sniff. “I brought my own supply of beans from Martinique. I will not drink the gutter water you English call coffee.”
“Yes, I will grind the beans fresh,” Stoker promised. He urged Julien forwards, pausing to brush his lips to my ear as they passed me. “Do not think for a moment we are finished with this,” he warned.
They left me to the wreckage of the dinner party, feeling a little deflated. I deplored such scenes and I was not accustomed to the dart of regret I felt at my treatment of J. J. She was correct; her behaviour merited more kindliness, and I owed her at the very least an apology and at the most, a story.
I resolved to rectify matters in due course, but I had an investigation to pursue. Wet through and stinking of fetid flower water, I got to my knees and worked my way methodically through the debris of the dinner party. There were masses of shattered crystal and broken porcelain, to say nothing of the scraps of food, puddled wines, and cracked candles. I turned everything over carefully, but I found nothing.
Thwarted, I wiped my hands on a discarded piece of napery and left the Megalosaurus to make a brief toilette. I dressed in my hunting costume for no other reason than the rush of confidence it always provided. And as I picked up the dress I had discarded and felt the book I had tucked instinctively into its pocket, I realised I held a clue no one else did.
I had Lorenzo d’Ambrogio’s notebook.
CHAPTER
29
Clean and tidy once more, I descended the stairs to find a bit of quiet in the library, but to my dismay I was not the only one to choose its hushed comforts. Ensconced in one of the large leather armchairs was Augusta. A recent fashion paper was lying open upon her lap, but she was gazing pensively into the cold hearth.
“I always find an unkindled fire to be a melancholy thing,” she said as I came near, rousing herself to greet me with a faint smile.
“There is a fire in the morning room if you are chilled,” I told her.
She shook her head. “Collins has already offered to light this one. I am fine. Only saddened, as must we all be.”
She motioned for me to take the chair opposite, but I hesitated. “I did not mean to intrude upon your solitude.”
“My solitude! My dear, you do me a service, I promise. My own thoughts are necessarily unhappy ones. I only knew her for two days, and yet I admit I am shaken.”
“As was Timothy Gresham,” I observed. “For a physician he seemed quite distressed to preside over a death.”
“A kindly man,” she said. “A pity he never married. He would have made an indulgent but affectionate father, I think.”
“At least he has Elspeth for companionship,” I offered.
Augusta was too well-bred to sink to cynicism, but a curious little light glowed in her eyes. “Do you think so?”
“Do you not?”
She considered a moment, canting her head as she thought. “I have never been able to plumb her depths. She is a curious soul, our Elspeth.”
“I thought that you knew her well, from that first visit to Cherboys.”
“Knew her? Yes. Well? No. I do not believe anyone knows her well, perhaps not even Timothy. She is a solitary person, not easily given to forming friendships.”
“She seems fond of you,” I ventured.
Again that gleam in her eyes. “Elspeth is easily impressed with social position. She values knowing ‘Lady MacIver’ rather more than she values knowing ‘Augusta.’ ”
