Bedford Square - Anne Perry [133]
He did not seem to be waiting for her to say anything, merely glad of her companionship and grateful for the presence of someone to whom he could speak his thoughts as they came to him.
“It is terrible that our relief, the end of our ordeal, has to be the beginning of someone else’s,” he went on. “How will Mrs. Cadell endure this? The knowledge will destroy everything of the past as well as the future. Does she have children, do you know?”
“No … I don’t. I think Aunt Vespasia said something about daughters; I’m not sure. I wasn’t really listening. How shatteringly life can change from one day to another.” She looked at the people passing by them, all seeming so carefree, as if there were nothing on their minds more serious than whether their gowns were fashionable or not, whether a young man had smiled at them, or the girl behind them. And yet underneath, their hearts could be breaking too. Every one of them must succeed in some way, or fail, and the price of that was heavy, perhaps poverty, perhaps loneliness. She had been as young, and as desperate in her own way, once.
“What I don’t understand,” Balantyne went on, frowning, “is why Cadell put the body of Slingsby on my doorstep with Albert Cole’s receipt on him and the snuffbox in his pocket. What was he trying to do? Have me arrested for his murder?” He turned and looked at her, his eyes full of confusion. “Did he hate me so much? Why? I liked him ….”
“I don’t know,” she confessed. “What is more difficult to understand for me is how he got the body. Slingsby was killed in Shoreditch.”
He sighed. “I suppose we shall never know. The man must have had a life quite separate from anything we guessed. I have never found myself so mistaken in anyone.” He gave a very slight laugh. “When I was worried about the orphanage in Kew, he was the one I wrote to.”
“What worried you?” she asked, not that it mattered; it was simply something to continue the conversation.
“The money,” he replied, smiling at her ruefully. “It all seems terribly trivial now. It wasn’t even a large amount.”
“Missing?” she asked.
“No … quite the contrary. I thought we were not giving enough … enough to meet the demands, that is. Perhaps I am a trifle naive as to how one may manage if one is skilled in housekeeping. I daresay they have a good kitchen garden. I have forgotten what children eat. I seem to recall rice pudding, plum duff and bread and jam. I suppose there must have been a great deal else.”
They walked a little farther in silence. Five minutes later they had completed the circle and were back at the gates again. He stopped.
“I …” He cleared his throat. “I … I am deeply grateful for your friendship.” He coughed, removing his arm from hers. “I value it a great deal more than you know—or than it is remotely suitable that I should tell you.” He stopped abruptly, knowing he had already said too much.
She saw the passion of gentleness in his eyes, and understood all that he could never say and she should not have allowed to happen.
She closed her eyes, not to meet his.
“I acted on impulse,” she said almost under her breath. “Sometimes … in fact, quite often … I have more feeling than sense. I apologize for it. But I never believed you were guilty and I cared so much to prove it.” She made herself smile, still with her eyes lowered. “I am very glad that that at least has been proved. I wish we could have solved all the other things too, but they will have to remain as they are.” For an instant she looked at him, then after a moment turned and walked away back towards the gates and outside, knowing that he watched her until was she out of sight, but she could not look back. She must not.
11
PITT ARRIVED HOME late after seeing Vespasia on the way back from Kew. He felt deeply sorry for her. Nothing he had been able to tell her was anything but crushing to the last shred of hope.
Now he sat in front of the empty fireplace in his parlor. The doors to the garden were closed after having been open nearly all day. It was still light, but there was a coolness in the air