Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

“The policeman who always looked as if he’d just come in out of a gale,” Brandy went on, oblivious of the chill. “Three years ago.” Even he avoided mentioning the events of death so close to them then.

“Why on earth should I remember such a person?” Augusta inquired critically.

Brandy seemed impervious to the ice in her voice-or to the warning. “He was rather memorable-”

“For goodness’ sake!” Christina interrupted. “He was a policeman! That is like saying one ought to remember other people’s servants!”

Brandy ignored her also. “He’s in charge of this maniac case in the Devil’s Acre,” he continued. “Did you know that?”

Augusta’s face froze, but before she could speak Christina turned on her brother, her voice unusually brittle. “I think it is most coarse of you to bring up such a subject at table, Brandy. Indeed I cannot see the need to discuss it anywhere at all! And I would be obliged if while we are eating you could talk of something pleasant. For instance, did you know that Lady Summerville’s eldest daughter is betrothed to Sir Frederick Byers?”

Augusta relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing under the stretched silk of her gown. But she did not yet resume eating, as if she might be required at any moment to rescue the situation.

“I know Freddie Byers doesn’t know it!” Brandy replied dryly. “At least he didn’t on Tuesday.”

Christina laughed, but without the usual full-throated delight.

“Oh, how marvelous! I wonder if we are to have a scandal? I can’t bear Rose Summerville anyway. Did I tell you that story of when she was presented to the Princess of Wales, and what happened to her feathers?”

Balantyne could not think what on earth she meant. “Feathers?” he repeated with disbelief.

“Oh, Papa!” Christina waved her small hand, delicate, ringed with two beautiful diamonds. “When one is presented at Court, one has to wear the Prince of Wales’ feathers as a headdress. It is really dreadfully difficult to keep them standing up, especially if you have wispy hair like Rose.” She proceeded to tell the disaster so trenchantly that even though Balantyne found the whole social presentation of debutantes farcical, and more than a little cruel, he was obliged to smile.

He looked once at Jemima, who of course had never been anywhere near the Court. But her eyes were bright with laughter, even if her mouth showed some indecision on just how much pity she felt for the hapless girls herded like competing livestock one after another, dressed in hundreds of guineas’ worth of gowns for their entrance into “Society.” Honor demanded they find a suitable husband before the Season’s end.

The dishes were cleared away and the next course served: chicken in aspic. The color and texture of it reminded Balantyne of dead skin, and in a flash of memory the present footman’s face was replaced by Max’s as he bent forward to offer the silver dishes.

Suddenly he did not wish to eat. There was no more food on the table than usual, but it seemed too much. He thought of the cold body on the mortuary slab. That was meat, too: gray-white flesh, like fowl, all the red blood settled to the back and buttocks. And yet even robbed, emasculated, Max had not seemed anonymous in death, as most men he had seen. That heavy face was too similar to his memory of the man in life.

Augusta was staring at him. He could not possibly explain to her what was in his mind. Better force himself to eat, even if it stuck in his throat. He would be able to wash it down with the Chablis, and the physical discomfort was easier than the continuing constrictions of trying to explain.

“I rather liked Miss Ellison, too,” Brandy said, out of nowhere. “She was one of the most individual women I have ever met.”

“Miss Ellison?” Augusta looked nonplussed. “I don’t think I know any Ellisons. When was she presented?”

“Never, I should think.” Brandy smiled broadly. “She was the young woman who helped Papa put his papers in order when he began writing his military history of the family.”

“For goodness’ sake, why ever should we talk about her!” Christina shot him a contemptuous glance. “She was the most ordinary creature. The only possible thing remarkable about her was a good head of hair. And even parlormaids can have good hair!”

“My dear girl, parlormaids have to have good hair,” Brandy answered scornfully. “And all the other physical attributes as well. Any house with pretensions to quality chooses its parlormaids for their looks. But you know that as well as I do.”

“Are we really to be reduced to discussing the appearance of parlormaids?” Augusta’s nostrils flared as if at some faintly unpleasant odor.

Balantyne was compelled to defend Charlotte-or was it his memory of her? A thing that mattered to him needed safeguarding. “Miss Ellison was hardly a parlormaid,” he said quickly. “In fact, she was not a servant at all-”

“She certainly was not a lady!” Christina snapped back a shade too rapidly. “I can tell the difference, even if Brandy cannot! Really, sometimes I think anything the least bit handsome in a skirt, and some men lose whatever judgment they once had!”

“Christina!” Augusta’s voice was like ice cracking and her face was whiter than Balantyne could remember ever having seen it before. Was she so angry for him because his daughter had insulted him at his own table? Or was it for Jemima, who had once been so little more than a servant? Oddly, he would rather believe it was for Jemima.

He turned to stare at his daughter. “One of the qualities of a lady, Christina,” he said quietly, “is that she has good manners and does not, even accidentally, cause offense to others by her clumsiness.”

Christina sat perfectly still, her eyes glittering, her cheeks bloodless, fist clenched over her napkin.

“On the contrary, Papa, it is servants-and social climbers-who do not give offense, because they know they cannot afford to.”

There was a ruffle of embarrassment round the table. It was Alan Ross who spoke, laying his fork down beside his plate. He had good hands-strong, without excess of flesh.

“Servants do not give offense because they dare not, my dear,” he said quietly to his wife. “A lady would not wish to. That is the difference. It is people who are obliged to no one, but have not the mastery of themselves, nor sufficient sensitivity to understand the feelings of others, who offend.”

“You have everything worked out so neatly, don’t you, Alan!” She said it as though it were a challenge, even an insult, implying he had curtailed thought with some preconceived answer.

Balantyne felt a cold wave of unhappiness, and pushed his plate away from him. Alan Ross was dignified; he had a sense of decency. He did not deserve this ill-behavior from his wife. Mere beauty was not nearly enough. One hungered for gentleness in a woman, no matter how splendid her wit or her face, or even her body. Christina had better learn that before it was too late and she forfeited Alan’s affection beyond retrieval. He must have Augusta speak to her about it. Someone should warn her-

Brandy jarred him back to an even uglier subject. “It was Max Burton, who used to be our footman, who was killed in the Devil’s Acre, wasn’t it?” He looked at them in turn.

His remark had the presumably desired effect of stopping the previous conversation utterly. Augusta’s hands hung paralyzed over her plate. Christina dropped her knife. Alan Ross sat motionless.

A petal fell from one of the flowers onto the tablecloth, whiter, purer than the starched linen.

Christina swallowed. “Really, Brandy, how on earth would we know? And, for that matter, why should we care? Max left here years ago, and it’s all completely disgusting!”