• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Omegus,” Vespasia said before anyone else could speak. “He is not involved and we may trust him to be fair.”

“May we?” Bertie said. “Applecross is his house. He is most certainly involved.”

“He is not involved in Gwendolen's death.” Vespasia kept her temper with increasing difficulty. “Do you have someone in mind you prefer?”

“I think the whole idea is absurd,” he replied. “And totally impractical.”

“I disagree.” Lord Salchester spoke with sudden decisiveness, his voice sharp. “I think it is an excellent idea. I am quite happy to be bound by it. So is my wife.” He did not consult her. “It will be for the good of all our reputations, and will allow the matter to be dealt with immediately, and justice be served.” He looked a little balefully around the table at the others. “Who is against it? Apart from those either guilty or too shortsighted to see the ultimate good.”

Omegus smiled bleakly, but he did not point out the loaded nature of the challenge. One by one they all agreed, except Isobel.

Vespasia looked at her very steadily. “Any alternative would be much worse, I believe,” she said softly. “Do we all give our word, on pain of being ostracized ourselves should we break it, that we will keep silent, absolutely, on the subject after the judgment is given and should the price be paid? Then the offender, if there is one, begins anew from the day of their return, and we forget the offense as if it had not happened?”

One by one, reluctantly at first, they each gave their pledge.

“Thank you,” Omegus said gravely. “Then after luncheon we shall begin.”

hey collected in the withdrawing room, the curtains open on the formal garden sweeping down toward the wind-ruffled water of the lake, and the trees beyond. It was the place where they could all be seated in something close to a circle, and the servants were dismissed until they should be called for. No one was to interrupt.

Omegus called them to order, then asked each of them in turn to tell what they knew of Gwendolen Kilmuir's actions, her feelings, and what she may have said to them of her hopes from the time she had arrived three days before.

They began tentatively, unsure how far to trust, but gradually emotions were stirred by memory.

“She was full of hope,” Blanche said a little tearfully. “She believed that her time of loss was coming to an end.” She shot a look of intense dislike at Isobel. “Kilmuir's death was a terrible blow to her.”

“So much so that she intended to marry less than a year and a half later,” Peter Hanning observed, leaning back in his chair, his cravat a little crooked, a slight curl to his lip.

“They had had some difficult times,” Blanche explained crossly. “He was not an easy man.”

“It was she who was not an easy woman,” Fenton Twyford interrupted. “She took some time to accept her responsibilities. Kilmuir was very patient with her, but the time came when he bore it less graciously.”

“A great deal less graciously,” Blanche agreed. “But he was mending his ways. She was looking forward to a far greater warmth between them when he was killed.”

“Killed?” Sir John said abruptly.

“In an accident,” Blanche told him. “A horse bolted, I believe, and he was thrown out of the trap and dragged. Quite dreadful. When she heard of it, poor Gwendolen was devastated. That was why it was so wonderful that she had a second chance at happiness.” She looked at Bertie with intense meaning.

He blushed miserably.

The tale progressed, each person adding colorful details until a picture emerged of the courtship of Bertie and Gwendolen, reaching the point when everyone expected an announcement. More than one person had noticed that Isobel was not pleased, even though she attempted to hide the fact. Now all the thoughts came to the surface, and she was clearly humiliated, but she did not dare escape. It would have been an admission, and she was determined not to make one.

But the tide swept relentlessly on. Even Vespasia was carried along by it until she was placed in a position where she must