Death On Blackheath

Chapter Eight

When Pitt left, Vespasia turned to the telephone and found herself curiously nervous. Beneath the muslin ruffles of her cuff, her hand was trembling a little. She steadied it and picked it up. When the operator asked whom she wanted, she gave her Victor Narraway’s number.

It rang three times, and she was about to change her mind when he answered, giving simply his name.

She cleared her throat.

‘Good evening, Victor. I hope I am not troubling you?’

‘I am not certain how to answer that and be both courteous and truthful,’ he said with a degree of amusement that she could discern, even in a voice distorted by the machine.

‘It is serious enough, I think, that you may dispense with courtesy,’ she replied. ‘And not all of the truth may be necessary …’

He laughed. ‘You always trouble me, but I should be bored without it,’ he said. ‘What is it that is so serious? I presume I may help? Or at least that there is that possibility?’

She was relieved, but also nervous, which was extremely unusual for her. She was accustomed to being in control of any social situation.

‘Will you dine with me, and I can explain to you the situation I believe I am observing?’

‘I should be delighted,’ he said immediately. ‘May I suggest a place where we may eat well, but not fashionably, and therefore be able to discuss without interruption whatever it is that troubles you?’

‘I think that would do very nicely,’ she accepted. ‘I shall dress accordingly.’

‘You will still cause a stir.’ The idea seemed to please him. ‘You cannot help it, and I should regret it bitterly if you tried.’

For once she could think of no suitable answer, except to say that she would see him in just over an hour.

In spite of what she had said about dressing quite ordinarily for dinner, she did not do so. Indeed, she took great care, choosing a gown of a dark blue-grey so soft that in the shadow it looked almost indigo. The line of the neck and the sweep of the skirt were both very flattering, and cut in the fashion of the moment. Deliberately she wore no jewellery, except very small diamond drop earrings. Her shining silver hair was ornament enough.

In the carriage as it made its way through the windy darkness of the streets, she was deep in thought, turning over and over in her mind the things that Pitt had told her.

There was a major part missing, in the sense of it. Now in the flickering light and shadow of the carriage interior, she could no longer deny it. She was almost certain who it was that had made it appear that Dudley Kynaston was deeply involved in the disappearance, probably even the murder of Kitty Ryder.

The thought was painful for a number of reasons. She did not regard Kynaston as a friend. She had met him perhaps half a dozen times, but she did know of his importance to the navy, even if not any of the details of his particular skills. Remembering his face, his voice, his pleasant but slightly detached manner, she found it hard to imagine any circumstances in which he would feel a sufficiently violent and totally uncontrolled emotion that he would sink to such an act. And why, for heaven’s sake? What could possibly be gained by it?

If his marriage were precious to him, would he have carried on a dalliance with a maid, however handsome she was? Even if his wife were too ill to offer him the usual comfort, or of a chill disposition and refused him, most men had more sense than to take their pleasure within their own households — if being discovered would be disastrous. However, such a thing would usually be regarded as shabby, but not ruinous. One could dismiss a maid easily enough. All it required was an accusation of petty theft, or even unseemly conduct. Many maids had found themselves on the street for less, and without a ‘character’ with which to gain another position.

The carriage slowed as traffic became more congested. It happened frequently but now it annoyed her because she was anxious to speak with Narraway.

It seemed far more likely that Kitty Ryder had been too clever and too observant for her own good. Even so, had she been reckless enough to try blackmail? What Pitt had said suggested that she was intelligent. A wise girl would have affected to know nothing, and expected in due course possibly to be rewarded for her loyalty and discretion — as she no doubt would have been.

According to Pitt, Kynaston had admitted having an affair, but with a woman of at least his own social class. But his wife’s lady’s maid was not in a position to know, surely?

Would it ruin the woman if it became public? Depending upon whose wife it was, that was indeed possible, if unlikely. Vespasia could think of a few candidates.

And of course there was the far more serious alternative: that the woman in question was the wife of someone who could ruin Kynaston’s career and thwart any ambitions he might have for higher office. No reason would ever be given. Some might guess, but that would not save Kynaston.

It was still a stretch of coincidence and imagination to connect it with the disappearance and probable death of Rosalind Kynaston’s maid.

The traffic cleared, and once again they were rattling through the early evening darkness. Vespasia could not shake the conviction that there was some other crucial part of the picture that she had not seen, something completely different that would change it entirely. It must be something that would explain why Somerset Carlisle, her friend for so many years, had asked questions in the House of Commons as to Dudley Kynaston’s safety, with regard to the apparent dramatic and brutal murder of one of his servants.

And now it appeared that Somerset had also most fortunately rescued Pitt from a profound embarrassment, and even fatal damage to his career, when facing Edom Talbot in Downing Street. His appearance, so perfectly timed, was explainable. If he had called Pitt’s office, as he had claimed, his staff would know where he was, because he would not have left without telling them. As for the other information, Somerset was a Member of Parliament, therefore anything known to the House of Commons might well be known to him, even if it were not said openly where the public might hear.

But there were other matters, like his apparently close following of the case of Kitty’s disappearance. Then there was the coincidence that a member of his constituency, which was many miles from Shooters Hill, should follow the case even more closely, and a drink at the Pig and Whistle, an hour’s journey from his home, in order to learn that Kitty had wanted a hat with a red feather in it. Then, according to Somerset, he had gone to a third area and bought just such a hat. He had also known where to place it, once again in Shooters Hill, in the right spot to have been missed by the police in their search around where the body was found, and yet still close enough that it was easy to believe it was hers.

And then there was the coincidence that someone found it, when only the red feather was noticeable in the surrounding mud and tussocks of dead grass.

No simple event in itself was unbelievable, just all of it together, particularly when coupled with the long history she knew of Somerset Carlisle. He had been willing to help Pitt, at her request, using his considerable influence in Parliament, even at times when it was embarrassing or inconvenient to himself. That had been true ever since Pitt had investigated the bizarre affair of the decently buried corpses which kept reappearing around Resurrection Row.

Of course Pitt had learned the truth, but he had chosen to ignore Carlisle’s part in it. He understood his motives, and had not denied even agreeing with them.

What could Dudley Kynaston have done drastic enough to warrant this? Whatever her character, which might make it more understandable, betrayal of a wife was ugly, but hardly unique. Certainly it was not motive to stir Somerset to such dangerous and macabre action.

Or was Vespasia wrong in suspecting Somerset’s involvement at all? She would very much like to think that it was the latter.

She arrived at the restaurant. It was one of Narraway’s favourites, small and elegant with windows that overlooked the river.

Narraway was already waiting for her, as she had expected. He was always fifteen minutes early, just to avoid any possibility of her having to wait for him. He rose to his feet and came towards her, his face lit with pleasure. He was still as lean and straight as when she had first met him, although his thick, black hair had more grey in it than even a year ago. He was a little taller than she, but she was tall for a woman, and carried every inch of her height as if she balanced a crown on her head.

He took both her hands, lightly, and kissed her on the cheek. Then he stepped back and regarded her with his usual intensity, as if he could read not her thoughts but her emotions.

‘Is it this miserable business of Pitt’s?’ he asked quietly as they were escorted to their table.

‘You know me too well,’ she replied. ‘Or have I been reduced to the periphery of social life where I can have no other anxieties?’ She said it with a smile. She intended to keep the conversation light. Oddly, she found herself nervous, not willing to trespass on to emotional ground.

‘I know you well enough to be perfectly aware that there are issues in society that might interest you, or annoy you,’ he answered. ‘But your heart is engaged only where you care. Which suggests your family … even if slightly extended.’ There was a flicker of something in his face that she could not identify, except as a kind of sadness, there and then gone again. Narraway had never married, and he had no family left. She had never thought it appropriate, or even kind, to enquire further. That there had been lovers come and then gone again, she knew perfectly well. It was not something one discussed.

They had been seated and ordered their meal before she answered his question.

‘Thomas is in something of a cleft stick,’ she said, sipping her wine, which had been brought just before the hors d’oeuvres. ‘The evidence seems to indicate that Dudley Kynaston is involved in this poor servant’s death, and yet they have no definite proof that the body is hers, even though they cannot find her alive. Kynaston admits to having an affair, but with someone of his own social rank, and Pitt does not believe he would kill anyone to conceal that.’

‘And you?’ Narraway asked, watching her reaction.

‘It seems a little … excessive,’ she replied. ‘And I agree, I had not thought Kynaston a man of such …’

‘Stupidity?’

‘I was going to say “passion”.’

‘Sometimes people have far more passion than they appear to,’ he said quietly, his eyes on her face, tracing the outlines of it as if to make it indelible in his mind. ‘Everyone else thinks them cerebral and a trifle cold because they keep their feelings hidden.’

She looked back at him. She wanted to press for his precise meaning, and was afraid to. It would leave her exposed as caring too much for the answer.

‘Do you think Kynaston is one of them?’ she asked, taking another sip of the wine. ‘I find I know less about him than I thought. I remember his brother, Bennett. He died young … well under forty. He had great promise, so it was particularly upsetting. Dudley took it very hard.’

‘I remember,’ Narraway said thoughtfully. ‘But that was several years ago — eight or nine, I think. They were very close, I believe.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of the main course of a delicate white fish, dense-fleshed and tender. It was dessert before that particular conversation resumed. In the meantime they spoke of the kind of art, theatre, music they both enjoyed, and laughed at current political jokes.

‘You did not ask to see me as an excuse to dine,’ Narraway said at last, the gravity back in his face. ‘I might have done, but you have never needed to prevaricate.’ He was smiling very slightly as he said it, but his concern was real and it would be a rebuff to pretend she did not hear it.

‘I can though,’ she admitted. ‘I think there are strong currents beneath the surface of this. I feel them, but I don’t know what they are. In fact, the more details I discover, the less can I make sense of it. It seems an absurd mixture of trivia and tragedy.’

He watched her without interrupting. His eyes looked almost black in the candlelight from the chandeliers.

‘A maid running off with a suitor is very inconvenient, but it happens quite often,’ she continued. ‘I think I have lost at least three that way, perhaps four, if you count a scullery maid. But a woman beaten to death and her body left in a public but deserted place, to be scavenged by animals, is both grotesque and tragic.’

He nodded. ‘And they appear to be connected. I presume Pitt was called in because the missing maid worked for a man of great importance to the navy, and thus to the safety of the country. What else?’

‘Kynaston, by his own admission, is having an affair, which is grubby, but far from unique …’

‘By his own admission?’ Narraway interrupted.

‘Yes. When Thomas taxed him with it, he did not try to evade it.’

‘Which does not mean it is necessarily true,’ he pointed out.

She was startled, and about to argue when she suddenly realised what he meant. ‘Oh! You think it is something worse? That an affair would be preferable to the truth?’

He gave a small, slight smile. ‘I don’t know, only that we should not assume anything for which we have no proof.’

‘Of course not. You are quite right,’ she agreed. ‘So that is another strange contrast, an admitted affair, which may conceal something worse, or at least something he has a greater desire to keep secret. Victor, what do you know of this man Talbot? Why does he so desire to be rid of Thomas? Is it something as simple as prejudice because Thomas has no family background or military experience? That too is grubby, and completely irrelevant, but it is not uncommon, and it is certainly not a crime. Or is there something of which he is afraid?’

‘He has the Government’s confidence,’ Narraway said thoughtfully. ‘But the Government has no experience of criminal deviousness as opposed to moral or political.’ He sighed. ‘You may be right, Talbot dines at the right clubs and Pitt doesn’t. He will never be one of them; you have to be born to it, and of course go to the right schools.’

‘Pitt is better as he is, right schools and clubs or not,’ she said sharply. Then she felt the colour hot in her cheeks as she saw the laughter in his face.

He leaned forward across the table. ‘I know that, my dear. I am as aware of Pitt’s worth as you are, professionally even more so. And in my own way, I am also fond of him.’

She looked down, avoiding his eyes. ‘I apologise. Of course you are. I did not mean to doubt you. This conflict has me … wrong-footed.’

He touched her hand where it lay on the table, gently, and only for a moment.

‘How charmingly you understate it. You make confusion about violence and murder sound like a missed step in a dance. I fear we shall run out of music before we reach that point. May I say what I think is really troubling you?’

‘Could I prevent you?’ she asked. Her voice was soft, but the words were a trifle defensive.

‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Just tell me that you are not yet ready to trust me with it — or perhaps that you do not wish to.’

‘Victor, I’m sorry. I am behaving with a discourtesy you do not deserve. I am evading the issue because I am afraid of it.’

‘I know,’ he said so quietly she barely heard him above the murmur of conversation around them. ‘It is Somerset Carlisle, isn’t it?’ he continued.

‘Yes …’

‘Would Pitt have let it go had Carlisle not asked the question about Kynaston in the House?’

‘I think so. That made it impossible,’ she agreed.

‘And what are you afraid of — exactly?’ he pressed.

She must now either answer him honestly, or deliberately refuse to.

He moved very slightly back again, no more than an inch, but she saw the shadow in his eyes. It was a moment of decision about far more than the admission as to what she feared regarding Carlisle: it was a moving closer, or apart, between Narraway and herself.

It seemed to stretch endlessly, isolated as if it were unreal, an island in time. She was afraid because where it led to might be painful. The chance to prevaricate was slipping out of her hands.

He moved back an inch further.

‘I am afraid that Somerset might have engineered the whole thing,’ she said huskily. ‘I don’t mean that he killed anyone,’ she amended. ‘I can’t believe that any cause, however intense, would make him do that …’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I think he may have used the police finding that tragic corpse; the continued disappearance of Kitty Ryder; the whole absurd episode of the hat with the red feather, which could have been hers and wasn’t; and the man who supposedly put it there, and found it, and so opened up the whole case again.’

‘And then blew it apart, and rescued Pitt?’ he asked curiously, but the shadow had gone from his face and his eyes were grave, and gentle. ‘For heaven’s sake, why?’

‘That is what troubles me,’ she confessed. ‘It is the mountain that is filling the sky, too big to see its boundaries, and yet too far away to touch. He is manoeuvring Pitt, Victor. That is what I am afraid of. And I have no idea why, so I can’t help.’

‘Have you warned him?’ he asked.

‘Thomas? Of what? He can remember Resurrection Row, and the bodies all over the place, not to mention various other … irregularities since.’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Irregularities! What a wonderful term for them! Yes, my dear, Somerset Carlisle has an art for irregularities that amounts to genius. What injustices does he care about enough to do this?’

‘I don’t know: murder, betrayal, corruption at the highest level, treason?’ The moment she said that last word she wished she had not. ‘Or perhaps some personal debt of honour. He wouldn’t tell me, and place me in the position of having to betray his trust in order to stop him.’

‘But he would use Pitt, who showed him such unwise compassion before?’

‘Maybe that’s why Somerset rescued him from Talbot?’ she suggested.

‘You are being too idealistic,’ Narraway replied sadly. ‘He is perfectly prepared to use Pitt because he needs him, but I wish we knew for what purpose.’ He looked at her steadily and this time she did not look away. It was an admission of something, a difference in the relationship between them and she was not as afraid of it as she had expected to be. In fact she felt a relaxing of tension inside herself, almost a warmth.

‘We are going to do something about it, aren’t we?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ she answered. ‘I think we have to.’

Again his fingers touched hers across the table, just tip to tip. ‘Then you must begin,’ he told her, ‘with Carlisle. I shall find out a great deal more about Mr Talbot.’

She smiled. ‘Indeed.’

The following morning over breakfast Vespasia returned her mind to the question of Kynaston and his involvement in Pitt’s case. She was concerned primarily for Pitt, because she was troubled by a fear that there was some element in it far more dangerous than a simple illicit affair. However, she had no idea yet what it was, except that it was ugly enough to provoke a particularly grotesque murder.

Which was why it also troubled her that Jack Radley had apparently been offered a position working more closely with Kynaston. She had grown fond of Jack for himself, but she would care about him regardless because he was married to Emily, and Emily’s first marriage had been to Lord George Ashworth, who had been her nephew. The close affection had remained after George’s death. Indeed, she now felt the same kind of bond with Charlotte also, perhaps even closer. They were in some ways more alike in nature.

If Kynaston were guilty in any way of Kitty Ryder’s death, then the stain of it would extend to those close to him professionally. And because of this suspicion, she could not rid herself of the fear that this ugly affair was more than a personal matter. Somerset Carlisle might deplore the betrayal of an affair, but she believed he would not appoint himself to any kind of judgement regarding it. He was too wise to imagine such things were one-sided.

Was to suspect Carlisle in this the inevitable result of common sense, or was it an unfair prejudice, a leap to conclusions based on the past?

She was not hungry. The crisp toast sat uneaten in the rack, all except for one piece taken with her boiled egg. Only the hot, fragrant tea appealed to her. This morning she must see Somerset Carlisle and ask him exactly how he was involved, and oblige him either to tell her the truth or to lie to her. If for some reason, even a good one, he lied, then that would open a chasm between them, perhaps narrow, but a division nevertheless, and something that could never again be completely closed. It would break a thread of trust that had been there for years, delicate and strong, like silk, throughout all kinds of fortune, good and bad.

She had not appreciated before quite how precious that was to her. She had scores of acquaintances, but they had not known the people Vespasia had wept for. They had not lain awake at night, cold with dread because they knew what had actually transpired, and the terror that had not come to pass. For them it was not life, it was the pages of history.

Not that Carlisle was her age — he wasn’t — but he had a fire, an idealism, for which he was willing to risk his own comfort, even his life. She admired him for that, and she was obliged to admit she liked him deeply. She did not yet wish to know exactly how he was involved in Dudley Kynaston’s life, or what he knew about Kitty Ryder.

If she faced it with any degree of honesty, she was not yet prepared to deal with that knowledge. So long as she did not ask, she had left herself room to believe as she wished. Once she knew, she would be obliged to speak to Pitt and tell him all she was aware of and for which there was proof.

And yet, of course, if she did not, then she was responsible for what occurred out of his innocence.

Was Pitt naïve? No, that was not the word, he was simply not as subtle and devious of mind as she was — or Carlisle.

Even the tea ceased to appeal to her. She rose from the table and walked out of the yellow dining room and across the hall to the stairs. It was too early yet to see Carlisle. First she would address the problem of Emily’s unhappiness.

Emily was delighted she had come, and welcomed her into the magnificent hallway with its marble floor and sweeping double staircases. Emily was so pleased, Vespasia immediately felt guilty that she had come for a very specific purpose. If Emily had any suspicion of that, she gave no sign of it at all.

‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she said warmly. She looked well, if a little pale. ‘I get so tired of snatching a word or two at some function, and having to be polite to everyone else. Although that play was fun, wasn’t it? I enjoyed watching the audience almost as much as the stage.’

She led the way into a garden room, which was light and airy, even in this wintry February where brief bars of sunlight shone between bands of cloud. The fire was burning and the air was warm. If one closed one’s eyes it was possible to believe in the illusion of summer. Vespasia was flattered that the shades so closely resembled those she had chosen for her own sitting room, which also faced on to the garden. They were subtle and yet there was depth to them, and nothing seemed chill or bleached of life.

‘Indeed, so did I,’ she agreed, sitting in one of the chairs by the fire and, when she was comfortable, Emily took the other. She was facing the light and Vespasia noted a tightness in her skin. It was perhaps due to nothing more than the usual effects of winter when one went outside less often, and riding in the park was hardly a pleasure. There was no grey in Emily’s fair hair, but there were tiny lines in her delicate skin and a shadow in her eyes.

‘Did you come for any special reason?’ Emily asked. She was a little more direct than her usual manner. After her encounters with Charlotte, was she afraid that there might be?

‘No, but if there is something you wish to speak of then I am always happy to hear.’ Vespasia practised the sort of evasion she had perfected over the years, both in society and within family. There were so many things one approached only in circles.

Emily smiled and relaxed a little. ‘Loads of gossip,’ she answered lightly. ‘Did you hear that wonderful story from America in the newspaper?’

Vespasia hesitated for a moment, uncertain if there were something behind Emily’s remark. ‘I hope you are about to tell me,’ she answered.

‘You haven’t?’ Emily said happily. ‘That’s marvellous. It’s absolutely gruesome. Her name was Elva Zona Heaster. Her death was ruled natural, but her mother claimed that her ghost came back and said her husband had broken her neck.’ Emily smiled and her eyes were dancing. ‘And to demonstrate, the ghost turned its head right around as she was describing her death, and walked away forwards, but with her head on backwards, still talking to her mother!’

Vespasia stared at her, incredulous.

‘In a little town in West Virginia,’ Emily continued. ‘Honestly! That’s more interesting than that Margery Arbuthnott is about to marry Reginald Whately, which is probably totally predictable.’ Suddenly there was a flat note in her voice as the laughter vanished.

Vespasia affected not to have noticed. ‘It seems to be a very repetitive cycle,’ she agreed. ‘And unless you know them well, it is not interesting. I used to find it easier to pretend I cared than I do now. It seems to me there are so many things more important.’

‘What is important, Aunt Vespasia?’ Emily said with a slight shrug. It was an elegant gesture, very feminine, and yet there was a thread of hurt through it, something deeper than the words.

‘Anything that concerns those you love, my dear,’ Vespasia answered. ‘But that is not for social conversation. We often do not tell people what matters to us. It is not always easy to say it even to those we know well, because we care what they think of us.’

Emily’s eyes widened with momentary disbelief.

‘Do you think I am too old to feel pain?’ Vespasia asked, aware that she was risking far too much in admitting it, and yet knowing there was no other way to reach whatever it was that coiled so tightly inside Emily, crushing the woman she used to be.

Emily blushed scarlet. ‘No, of course I don’t!’

‘Yes, you do,’ Vespasia said gently. ‘Or else you would not be so embarrassed that I have observed it. I assure you, pain does not lessen just because you have known it before. It is new each time, and cuts just as sharply.’

‘What would hurt or frighten you?’ Emily’s voice was husky now. ‘You are beautiful, wealthy, admired by everyone, even those who envy you. You are safe. No one can take from you all the wonderful things you have done. See some people’s faces when you walk into a room. Everyone looks. No one ever thinks of ignoring you.’ She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘You cannot lose who you are …’

‘Is that what frightens you, losing who you are?’ Vespasia looked at her carefully, searching her eyes. ‘What frightens me is no one else knowing who I am — not what I look like, or what I said that might have interested or amused them, but what I feel like inside.’ She gave a rueful little sigh. It was not the time for mock modesty. ‘It has always been pleasant to be beautiful; it is certainly not a gift one should be ungrateful for.’ She moved perhaps an inch. ‘But love concerns the beauty that is within — and the pain, the mistakes, the dreams, the things that make you laugh, and cry. It is about how you deal with failure and own your mistakes. It is about tenderness and the courage to admit your own need, to be grateful for passion and generosity of soul. That has nothing to do with whether your nose is straight or your complexion without blemish.’

Emily stared at her, tears welling up in her eyes.

‘I don’t know whether Jack still loves me or not,’ she whispered. ‘He doesn’t talk to me any more, not about things that matter. He used to ask my opinion. It’s … it’s as if I’ve already said everything he wants to hear, and I’m not interesting now. I look in the mirror and I see a woman who’s tired … and boring.’ She stopped abruptly, her silence begging for a reply.

Vespasia could not answer her immediately and in the way she wanted. But this was too deep an unhappiness to allow a quick remedy.

‘Are you bored, Emily?’ she asked. ‘There comes a time when Society is not enough, no matter how much you cannot afford to offend it. I remember very vividly when I arrived at that point the first time.’ That was absolutely true. She had been younger than Emily, and bored stiff with being ornamental but completely unnecessary. It was a time she preferred not to think of. She had children she loved, but their daily needs were cared for largely by servants. Her husband was not unkind — he had never been that — simply without the fire in his soul or the flight of imagination she hungered for. But none of that did she intend to tell Emily, or anyone else.

Emily’s eyes were wide, the tears forgotten. ‘I can’t imagine you bored. You are always so … so engaged in things. You are not just being … kind to me … are you?’

‘I think you mean “patronising”, don’t you?’ Vespasia asked frankly.

‘Yes, I suppose so, but I didn’t mean to say it,’ Emily admitted, then gave a small, very reluctant smile.

‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ Vespasia smiled back. ‘And no, I am not being either kind or, I hope, patronising. Do you imagine you are the only woman who finds mere comfort insufficient? Of course it is, when you don’t have it. But one can become accustomed to it very quickly. Perhaps a little downfall would be helpful? Not of the physical kind, but of the emotional sort? One can very quickly learn the value of something when you fear losing it. We take the light for granted, until it goes out. You are used to turning on the tap and getting water. You have forgotten what it is like to have to go to the well with a bucket.’

Emily’s eyebrows rose. ‘Do you think going to the well would make me feel better?’

‘Not at all. But if you did so a few times, turning on the tap certainly would. But I mentioned it only as an example. Tell me, is Jack going to work for Dudley Kynaston, do you know?’

‘No, I don’t know! That is one of the many things he has not discussed with me.’ There was a moment’s conflict in Emily’s face; then she made a decision. ‘I would like to tell you to ask Charlotte. She seems to know everything, but that would only cut off my nose to spite my face, as they say. Somerset Carlisle was asking questions about Kynaston in the House. Is there really something wrong?’ Now her concern was sharp and very visible.

Vespasia knew exactly what she was afraid of. It was not so long ago that Jack had looked for another promotion from a remarkable man, in high office, and who had favoured him. That man had proved to be a traitor, and Jack was fortunate to have escaped with his own reputation intact. Was history going to repeat itself? It was not an unreasonable fear.

‘I dare say Jack is as concerned as you are,’ Vespasia said. ‘He will feel that he has let you down if he makes another error of judgement. And yet Kynaston may be totally guiltless in the disappearance of this unfortunate maid. She may simply have gone off with a young man and be living happily somewhere well outside London.’ She sighed. ‘Or, of course, she may have made a most unfortunate choice of lover, and it was indeed her body in the gravel pit, and she would have been perfectly safe had she stayed at the Kynaston house. Maybe Jack is trying to postpone his decision until Thomas has proved the matter one way or the other.’

‘That would be pretty difficult,’ Emily pointed out. ‘It’s going to be obvious what he’s doing, and why. He would be letting the whole world know that he thinks Kynaston might be guilty.’

‘Quite so,’ Vespasia agreed. ‘And that is enough to embarrass him, and make him wish he could be more decisive. I would lie awake at night were I to be faced with such a decision.’

‘Then why doesn’t he ask me?’ Emily demanded.

‘Possibly because he is stubborn, and proud. And also perhaps because he does not wish to burden you with the choice, because if it should turn out badly he will take the blame himself.’

‘Do you think so?’ There was a lift of hope in Emily’s voice.

‘Expect the best,’ Vespasia advised. ‘Then you will not be filled with guilt if you receive it. In the meantime, for heaven’s sake find yourself something in which to be interested. You fear being boring because you are bored with yourself. And I do not mean that you should play at being detective! That would be dangerous, and highly undignified.’

‘What do you want me to do? Go and visit the poor?’ Emily’s face was filled with horror.

‘I don’t think the poor deserve that,’ Vespasia said drily.

‘Some of the poor are very nice!’ Emily protested. ‘Just because … oh! Yes. I see.’

‘Exactly my point, my dear,’ Vespasia replied. ‘They do not deserve to be patronised either. Do something useful.’

‘Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia,’ Emily said meekly.

Vespasia looked at her with alarm. ‘You intend to find out about Kynaston! Don’t you?’

‘Yes, Great-aunt Vespasia. But I shall be very careful, I promise you.’

‘Well, if you must meddle, find out about his wife. And if you say “yes, Great-aunt Vespasia” again I shall … think of something suitable to control your impudence.’

Emily leaned forward and kissed her gently. ‘Bed without any supper,’ she said with a smile. ‘Cold rice pudding in the nursery? I hate it cold.’

‘I dare say you are well acquainted with it!’ Vespasia observed, but she could not keep either the affection or the amusement out of her voice.