“Mary?” She waited for the girl to meet her eyes. “I want to tell you something. Something I know from bitter experience. When someone you love takes their life, your mind searches in circles for reasons. And you blame yourself for not seeing the signs.”
“Yes . . .”
“You’ll feel many things that aren’t your fault.”
“I asked Charles if business matters were troubling him. He denied it, but I had a sense the answer was yes. Perhaps I only wish it were true. An easy answer.”
A knock at the front door sounded loud in the silence of the household.
Mary stood, brushing her cheeks. “This may be Cyril.Mister Eastlake is our family solicitor. I sent the coachman with a message about Charles.”
A trim man of average height in early middle age entered the room. He had close-cropped graying hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a dark frock coat, stiff upturned collar, and conservatively patterned necktie, the uniform of his profession. Everything about him telegraphed the solidity, competence, and discretion of a perfect family retainer.
“Mary, my dear.” Eastlake took her hand. “Such an appalling tragedy. How is Louisa?”
“She’s . . . she’s resting. Cyril.” Mary turned away. “This is Doctor Julia Lewis.”
Eastlake blinked. “Doctor?”
“I treated Mister Allingham after his skating accident.”
“Youtreated him?” The man looked shocked. “Not Doctor Scott?”
“He wasn’t at Regent’s Park. I was. I treated Mister Allingham at the scene.”
“Oh. Well, I imagine he consulted Doctor Scott later. Have you seen Louisa, Doctor Lewis? How is Mrs. Allingham?”
Before Julia answered, Inspector Tennant entered the room. He offered Mary his condolences, and she introduced him to Mister Eastlake.
Julia saw the wheels turn in the lawyer’s eyes. Yet, he didn’t ask the obvious question: What was a detective from the Metropolitan Police doing at the scene of a suicide?A patient man,Julia thought,who waits for information to come to him.
“Cyril, can you—” Mary jumped when the sitting room door flew open, and the handle cracked against a bookcase.
“I’m sorry,” Louisa Allingham said from the doorway. She looked at her black-gloved palm and said, “The doorknob slipped from my grasp.”
Louisa looked beautiful and bereft in a jet-black widow’sfrock, her face a pale mask above its high dark collar. Eastlake crossed the room. He caught up her hand and cradled it before raising it to his lips.
“Louisa, my dear.”
Slowly, she lifted her gaze to his face. “It’s a terrible mistake. Charles . . . he wouldn’t. Cyril, you knew him. He could never . . . It must be an accident.” Louisa pulled her hand away and let it drop.
Eastlake put his arm around her shoulder. “My dear, we’re looking into it. Leave it to Mary and me. You should be resting.” He looked at Julia. “Doctor Lewis, will you insist?”
Julia nodded to Mary. She slipped her arm around her sister-in-law’s waist. “Come, Lou,” she said gently.
Louisa looked at Tennant. “Richard . . . Richard, you will help us, won’t you? Find the truth about Charles?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Thank you,” Louisa said, smiling tremulously. Mary led her away.
The weak and the strong,Julia thought. All sympathy and concern flowed toward Louisa Allingham.It’s natural for the widow. But Mary . . .Julia shook her head.Mary looks gutted.
As soon as the door closed, Eastlake turned to the inspector. “I suppose there’s little doubt.”
“He drank a glass of whiskey laced with powdered green paint.”
“Paint?”
