Long Spoon Lane (32 page)

“Eight, actually,” she told him. “I am glad you raised the subject, Mr. Denoon. Of course there are more than that who are now homeless. I believe the latest figure is sixty-seven, which does not include the twenty-three from Myrdle Street. I have begun a fund, much of which has already been dispensed, to provide them with shelter and food until they are able to make their own arrangements. I am sure you would wish to contribute to that, both personally and through the medium of your newspaper.” She made it a statement, not a question.

Denoon drew in his breath.

“Of course we would,” Enid said before he could speak. “I wish I had thought of it myself. I shall send my footman with my donation tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you,” Vespasia said sincerely. She could have liked Enid, had circumstances long ago been different. She had thought Enid disapproved of her, not catching even a glimpse of Vespasia’s loneliness. She realized now how foolish that was, how self-absorbed to imagine she was alone in her sense of dreams frustrated, boundaries closing her in both physically and emotionally. Enid must have felt the same, perhaps worse. And she was still there, accustomed to the tethers perhaps, but hurting no less.

She found herself smiling at the other woman, as if for a moment there were only the two of them encompassing a hundred words.

Denoon cut across it abruptly, resenting his exclusion, although he was barely aware from what he was denied. “What do you propose to say to Lord Albemarle, should you have the opportunity to speak to him?” he asked. “I hope you are not going to ask him for money?”

Sheridan stood up. “Edward, you are being crass. What you say or do in your own house is your own affair, but in my house you will be civil to my guests, whether they are friends of yours or not.” He sounded tired, hurt, and weary with an unutterable contempt.

Denoon turned on him, his face purple. “This is too important for aristocratic delicacy, Sheridan. We cannot afford to indulge whims and vanities, or the desire to be seen to do good. Donations are all very fine, and make us all feel better and be publicly admired. But they do not address the problem. They do not stop a single bomb going off or catch one anarchist. We need support in Parliament. We need stronger laws, and men of courage and decision in the places of power where they can do good.”

He glanced at Vespasia as casually as if she had been a servant with a tray in her hands. “I have no desire to offend Lady Vespasia, but this is a serious business. There is no room for amateurs and dabblers. It matters too much. We need Albemarle. For that matter, we need you! For God’s sake, put your oversensitivities aside and join the battle!” Perhaps without realizing it, he moved a step closer to Cordelia, allying himself with her sentiment, unspoken since Vespasia had arrived, but obvious in Cordelia’s face from the beginning.

Sheridan looked back at Denoon, ignoring all three women.

“You are a fool, Edward,” he said sadly. “And a stupid man with as much power as you have is dangerous enough to frighten anyone of wisdom. You seem to have no idea how political negotiations work. A word from Vespasia, and the doors of London will be open to you, or closed. A thoughtless insult, a callous gesture, and all the money you possess will avail you nothing. You need to be liked, Edward, and that is something you cannot force and you cannot buy.”

Denoon’s face was scarlet, but he could find no words to defend himself. As much as anything, he looked startled into silence by the fact that Sheridan had at last retaliated. It was obviously something he had not expected.

Cordelia was thoroughly out of composure. Anger darkened her face, but her first concern was for the cause.

“I apologize for my brother-in-law,” she said to Vespasia. “It is ignorance that prompted him to be so rude. He cares too much about the danger of even worse violence to guard his tongue, which does not excuse him, of course.”

Vespasia considered waiting in silence for Denoon to apologize. It would have had the desired effect. Sheridan would have done so, and forced it to happen. He would have understood, but he might not have admired her for it, justified as it was. More important than even the old affection, she would not have admired herself. It would be vanity, justice for herself. She was more concerned with her own cause, the defeat of the bill—and perhaps also having the kind of inner dignity that was above the need for collecting any debt.

“The need to be successful in this is far greater than our individual feelings,” she said mildly. “We must overcome our differences of manner and do only that which furthers our aim. I believe that a quiet word with Lord Albemarle will bear fruit. His influence is much wider than is generally known. I will be happy to speak with him if you wish, or not, as your judgment dictates.”

Enid looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“Thank you,” Cordelia said with open gratitude.

Sheridan relaxed.

They waited for Denoon to speak.

“Of course,” he agreed grudgingly. “As long as that is not all we do. The bill is down for a second reading this afternoon. The anarchists are still free, and growing more violent with every day. The police have not the power to stop them because we have not given it to them. Before Lord Albemarle can exert whatever influence he has, they may strike again. How many more people will be blasted to oblivion? How many more streets set on fire? The next time the brigades may not be able to extinguish it before it spreads and runs out of control. Have you considered that? Special Branch is useless. What have they achieved? A couple of minor men in prison, and one young man murdered! God knows why, or by whom.”

Vespasia had not intended to, but she glanced at Sheridan, then wished she had not. In spite of all her wish to drive it out, the thought returned to her again. Could he have killed Magnus, rather than see him descend any further? Or even in order to preempt the hangman?

She could understand how one quiet shot to the back of the head would be immeasurably more merciful. Had he done that? Whatever Magnus’s sins, Sheridan had loved his son. The pain of it was etched forever in his face.

“We don’t know who they are, what connections they have, even what foreign allies these anarchists may have to draw on,” Denoon was saying, oblivious of grief, or perhaps not caring. “The dangers are enormous. We cannot underestimate them. Whatever the embarrassment to ourselves, our duty is clear.”

“You speak as if they had unity,” Cordelia interrupted. “I don’t think we should assume that is so.”

He looked annoyed. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no idea whether they have unity or not. I am only concerned with getting rid of them.”

“My son was among them, whatever his delusions of purpose.” Cordelia’s voice was tight and thick with emotion. “Someone killed him. I wish to know who, and see him hanged.”

Fear flared up in Vespasia again that it could have been Sheridan. It was more than just barely conceivable; it actually seemed possible. It raced through her mind. How could she protect him? How could she do something to prevent anyone knowing, even Pitt?

She saw Enid staring at Sheridan also, as if the same terror gripped her. What did she know? How could she know anything, unless he had told her? Would he do that, lay such a burden on her? Or had she simply guessed? Did she know him well enough that he could not have such a secret from her?

He must have changed from the man Vespasia had known. Would that man have killed anyone, for any reason? She did not know. Time, pain, and love change things. But she still believed Cordelia was the one who would kill to save herself, her honor, her reputation. She had the steel in her heart. But who could she use to actually pull the trigger? Who owed her enough, or was sufficiently afraid of her?

What did Enid know, or the footman she seemed to trust so much?

“We’d like to see all the anarchists hanged,” Denoon said roughly. “I really don’t care what for.” He was looking at Cordelia, not Sheridan. “Knowing who is individually guilty is a luxury we may not have, satisfying as it would be.”

“Possibly not,” she said coldly. “But I shall still try!”

His face was bleak. “I advise against it. There may be things about Magnus you would prefer not to know, not to mention prefer were not made public in a courtroom. You should consider long and hard before you tear open issues of which you do not know the nature or the extent.”

She looked at him with loathing, her face like stone. “Do you know something about my son’s death that I do not, Edward?”

“Of course he doesn’t!” said Enid desperately, half-rising to her feet. Deliberately she did not look at Sheridan. “That is absurd! I think grief has made you forget yourself, Cordelia.”

“On the contrary!” Cordelia retorted. “Grief has made me remember a great deal that I should never have let slip from my mind!”

“We all know many things.” Enid’s look did not flinch. She faced her sister-in-law almost without blinking, her body stiff, her eyes hard. “Most of them are best kept silent, if we are to live in any kind of peace. I am sure if you consider it, you will agree with me.”

Cordelia’s face went scarlet, and then the color ebbed away, leaving her white. She turned to Sheridan, but it was impossible to tell from her expression if it were for help or any of a dozen other reasons.

He looked tired, almost indifferent. It seemed all old and stale to him.

Vespasia felt surrounded by pain and anger she did not understand. Perhaps if she remained she would learn more, but she felt impelled to end it. She rose to her feet.

“I agree with you,” she said firmly. “Sometimes to forget is the only sanity left, otherwise the past imprisons us and makes the future impossible.” She looked at Cordelia. “I shall accept Lady Albemarle’s invitation, and do all I can to gain the fullest support.” She straightened her skirts with a swift hand. “Thank you for your hospitality. If I hear more, I shall, of course, inform you. Good afternoon.”

Sheridan stood also, and accompanied her to the front door. He stopped just inside, opening it himself so the footman retired out of hearing.

“Vespasia,” he said gently.

She did not want to look at him, but now deliberately to avoid doing so would be worse.

“Enid is afraid that I killed Magnus myself,” he told her. “She sent her footman to follow me. He is loyal to her and loathes Edward. He would not betray me if it were not her wish. I think perhaps you are afraid of the same thing. I can see it in your face.”

There was no escape now. “Did you?” she asked.

He smiled very slightly, just a tiny curve at the corners of his lips. “Thank you for not denying it. Your honesty was always one of the things I loved about you most. No, I did not. I tried again and again to dissuade him from his path, but he would not listen. He was passionately sure that the corruption was too deep to cure except by violence. But I did not kill him, and I don’t know who did. I am hoping your Mr. Pitt will find that out.”

“Enid?” she whispered.

“I don’t think so. But she could have had that footman do it for her. Enid has far more…passion than Denoon knows…or Cordelia. I pray not. It would be so terribly wrong of her to have dragged that young man into such a thing, whatever for.”

“If she fears you did it, then she cannot know he did,” she pointed out.

“I know that,” he said with a bleak, agonized smile. “Perhaps I am just afraid of shadows. You were never afraid, were you.” It was not a question.

“Oh, yes, I was!” she said with sudden honesty. “I still am. I just refuse to look at how much, or I might not have the nerve to stand.”

He bent suddenly and kissed her, gently, on the mouth. Then he pushed open the door and she walked out to her waiting carriage.

Charlotte was at home in the late afternoon when the doorbell rang. Gracie answered it, and a moment later came to the kitchen, her eyes wide, to say that Mr. Victor Narraway wished to speak with her.

Charlotte was startled. “Here?”

“I put ’im in the parlor,” Gracie said apologetically, her eyes wide. “ ’E looks awful angry!”

Charlotte put down the iron, straightened her skirt, reached up automatically to make sure her hair was more or less tidy, and went to the parlor.

Narraway was standing in the middle of the floor, his back to the fireplace. He was dressed immaculately, his hair smooth and thick, his body rigid. His face was so tense; his voice, when he spoke, precise, sharp-edged.

“Mrs. Pitt, this morning you went to see Sir Charles Voisey at his home. Please don’t embarrass us both by denying it.”

His arrogance lit a sudden rage in her. “Why on earth should I deny it, Mr. Narraway?” she said hotly. Only the fact that he was Pitt’s superior officer kept her from adding that it was none of his concern, and she considered him to be ill-mannered. “I do not know of any reason why I should account for myself to you, truthfully or otherwise.”

“Have you forgotten who Voisey is?” he said almost between his teeth. “Have you put it out of your mind that he was responsible for the death of Mario Corena and Reverend Rae, and very possibly attempted to kill you, your children, and your maid?”

“Of course I haven’t,” she said tartly. “Even if I forget my own fear, I could not forget Mario Corena, for Lady Vespasia’s sake.” She did not mention Reverend Rae. In this instance, only Corena mattered.

“Why did you go to see him, Mrs. Pitt?” he demanded.

For a moment she considered telling him. Then her temper took control. “I thought you were against the bill to increase police powers to question people without reason, or to interrogate servants without their master or mistress’s knowledge, Mr. Narraway?”

He looked surprised, temporarily caught on the wrong foot. “I am.”

“Good.” She stared at him. “So is Sir Charles.”

“That is not a reason for you to see him, Mrs. Pitt! He is an extremely dangerous man…” His voice rose, getting sharper, angrier. “Do not go anywhere near him again. Do you understand?”

“I know that, Mr. Narraway,” she replied icily, ignoring the fact that he was correct, Voisey’s opposition to the bill was no reason for her going to see him. “But you appear to have forgotten that my husband works for you. I do not,” she continued. “Or are you threatening me that if I do not do as you wish, you will somehow punish him for it?”