Anne Perry - Funeral in Blue

“Charles!” she started again, more urgently. “What do you know about where she is going? You followed her to Swinton Street, which is a block from Acton Street. .”

He jerked his head up. “That’s not where she went the night of the murders!” he said abruptly. “I know that, because I followed her myself.”

“Where did she go?” she asked.

“South of High Holborn,” he said immediately. “Down Drury Lane, just beyond the theater, nowhere near the top of the Gray’s Inn Road.” He stared at her almost defiantly.

Why was he so quick to deny that Imogen had been there?

She stood up and moved away, turning her back to him so he would not see the anxiety in her face. “I understand they were killed in an artist’s studio,” she said almost lightly. “The model worked for him and spent quite a lot of time there, and the doctor’s wife went for a sitting because he was painting a portrait of her.”

“Then the artist did it,” he said quickly. “The newspapers didn’t say that.”

“Apparently, he wasn’t there. A misunderstanding, I suppose.”

He sat silently.

“So you don’t need to worry,” she continued, as if she had dismissed the matter. “Anyone walking about in the evening is in no more danger in Swinton Street than anywhere else.”

She heard his intake of breath. He was frightened, confused, and now feeling even more alone. Would it persuade him at last to be more open?

But the silence remained.

Her patience broke and she swung around to face him. “What is it you are afraid of, Charles? Do you think Imogen knows someone who might be involved with this? Argo Allardyce, for example?”

“No! Why on earth should she know him?” But the color washed up his face, and he must have felt its heat. “I don’t know!” he burst out. “I don’t know what she’s doing, Hester! One day she’s elated, the next she’s in despair. She dresses in her best clothes and goes out without telling me where. She lies about things, about where she’s been, who she’s visited. She gets unsigned messages about meeting someone, and she knows from the handwriting who it is and where to go!”

He fished in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, offering it to her. She took it. It was simply an agreement to meet, no place given, and unsigned. Charles pressed his hands over his face, leaving white marks on his cheeks, and he winced sharply when he touched his jaw. “She’s changed so much I can hardly recognize her sometimes, and I don’t know why!” he said wretchedly. “She won’t tell me anything. . she doesn’t trust me anymore. What can I think?” His eyes were hot and desperate, begging for help.

Hester heard all the details of what he said, but overriding it all she heard the panic in him, the knowledge that he had lost control and for the first time in his life his emotions were in a chaos he could not hide.

“I don’t know,” she said gently, going over to him again. “But I’ll do everything I can to find out, I promise you.” She looked at him more closely, seeing the darkening bruises. “What did you do to your face?”

“I. . I fell. It doesn’t matter. Hester. .”

“I know,” she said gently. “You think perhaps you would rather not find out the truth, but that isn’t so. As long as you don’t know, you will imagine, and all the worst things will be there in your mind.”

“I suppose. . but. .” He stood up awkwardly, as if his joints hurt. “I’m really not sure, Hester. Perhaps I’m worrying. . I mean. . women can be. .”

She gave him a withering look.

“Well. . not you, of course. .” He foundered again, his face pale, blotches of dull color on his cheeks.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” she contradicted. “I can be as irrational as anybody else, or at least I can appear so to a man who doesn’t understand me. If you recall, Papa thought so. But that was because he didn’t wish to understand that I wanted something to do just as much as you or James.”

“Oh, far more!” The faint ghost of a smile crossed his mouth. “I never wanted anything with the fierceness you did. I think you terrified him.”

“I shall go and see Imogen this afternoon,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “At least warn her. Tell her how dangerous it is. She doesn’t listen to me.”

When she arrived in Endsleigh Gardens she was let in by Nell, the parlormaid she had known for years.

“Oh, Miss Hester!” Nell looked taken aback. “I’m afraid Mrs. Latterly’s out at the minute. But come in. She’ll be back in half an hour or so, and I’m sure she’d want to see you. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea?”

“No, thank you, Nell, but I will wait, thank you,” Hester accepted, and followed her to the drawing room to possess herself with patience until Imogen should arrive. She sat down as Nell left, then, the moment after the door was closed, stood up again. She was too restless to remain on the sofa with her hands folded. She began to wander around the room, looking at the familiar furniture and pictures.

How could she gain Imogen’s confidence sufficiently to learn what it was that had changed her? Surely her husband’s sister was the last person Imogen would trust with the confidence that she was betraying him. And if Hester asked her a question to which the answer was a lie, it would only deepen the gulf between them.

She stopped in front of a small watercolor next to the mantelpiece. It was attractive, but she did not recognize it. Somehow in her mind she had seen a portrait there, a woman wearing a Renaissance pearl headdress.

She lifted it slightly and saw underneath a darker oval on the wallpaper. She was right, the portrait had been there. She looked around the room and did not find it. She went through to the dining room and it was not there, either, nor was it in the hall. It hardly mattered, but its absence occupied her mind while she waited.

She noticed other small differences: a vase she did not recognize; a silver snuffbox, which had been on the mantelpiece for years, was not there now; a lovely alabaster horse was gone from the side table near the hall door.

She was still wondering about the changes when she heard the front door close, a murmur of voices, and a moment later Imogen’s footsteps across the hall.

She threw the door open and swept in, her skirts wide, a lace fichu around her neck. Her dark eyes were shining and there was a flush on her cheeks. “Hello, Hester,” she said cheerfully. “Twice in the space of four days! Have you suddenly taken to visiting everyone you know? Anyway, it’s very pleasant to see you.” She gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then stepped back to look at the table. “No tea? I suppose it’s far too early, but surely you’d like something? Nell says you have been here for three quarters of an hour. I’m so sorry. I’ll speak to her. .”

“Please don’t,” Hester said quickly. “She offered me tea and I declined. And don’t go to any trouble now. I expect you have only just come from luncheon?”

“What?” Imogen looked for a moment as if nothing had been farther from her mind, then she laughed. It was an excited, happy sound. “Yes. . of course.” She seemed too restless to sit down, moving around the room with extraordinary energy. “Then if you don’t want to eat or drink, what can I offer you? I’m quite sure you don’t want gossip. You don’t know any of the people I do. Anyway, they are the most crashing bores most of the time. They say and do the same things every day, and nearly all of them are completely pointless.” She whirled around, sending her skirts flying. “What is it, Hester? Are you collecting support for some charity or other?” She was speaking rapidly, the words falling over each other. “Let me guess! A hospital? Do you want me to see if I know any friends whose daughters want to become respectable, hardworking young ladies in a noble cause? Miss Nightingale is such a heroine they just might! Although it’s not quite as fashionable as it was at the end of the war. After all, we aren’t fighting with anyone just now, or are we? Of course, there’s always America, but that’s really none of our business.” Her eyes were bright and she was staring at Hester expectantly.