Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [41]
The long green velvet curtains were splayed out on the floor and s wagged with braided sashes, the only thing in the room which jarred on him. He had no idea why, but he disliked the display of overlength curtains, even though he knew it was customary in houses of wealth. It was a conventional sign of plenty, that one had enough velvet to waste.
There was a large cut-glass bowl of roses on the low mahogany table between the chairs.
He walked over to the window and stood in the sun waiting for the footman to return.
However when the door opened it was Lady Byam herself who came in, closing it behind her, making it apparent she intended to speak with him in this room rather than conducting him elsewhere. She was taller than he had remembered, and in this sharp, hard light he could see she was also older, perhaps within a few years of his own age. Her skin was pale and clear and there was light color in her cheeks, and he could see a few very fine lines about her eyes. It made her seem more approachable, more vulnerable, and more capable of laughter.
“Good morning, Mr. Drummond,” she said with a faint smile. “I am afraid Lord Byam is out at the minute, but I expect he will return soon. May I offer you some refreshment until then?”
He had no need of either food or drink, but he heard himself accepting without hesitation.
She reached for the bell cord and pulled it. The footman appeared almost immediately and she sent him for tea and savories.
“Forgive me, Mr. Drummond,” she said as soon as the footman was gone. “But I cannot help but ask you if you have any information regarding the death of Mr. Weems?”
He noticed that in spite of the blackness of her hair, her eyes were not brown but dark gray.
“Very little, ma’am,” he answered apologetically. “But I thought Lord Byam would wish to hear how we have progressed, regardless that it is so slightly, and all of it merely a matter of elimination.”
“Elimination?” Her cool, level voice lifted with a moment of hope. “You mean reason why it was not my husband?”
He wished he could have told her it was. “No, I am afraid not. I mean people whom we had reason to suspect, people who had borrowed money from Weems, but whom we find can account for their whereabouts at the time of his death.”
“Is that how you do it?” Her brow was furrowed; there was anxiety in her eyes and something he thought was disappointment.
“No,” he said quickly. “No—it is merely a way of ruling out certain possibilities so we do not waste time pursuing them. When someone like Weems is killed it is difficult to know where to begin, he had so many potential enemies. Anyone who owed him money is at least a possibility.” He found himself talking too quickly, saying too much. He was aware of doing it and yet his tongue went on. “We have to establish who had a reason for wishing him dead and then who had an opportunity to commit the crime, and would have the means at their disposal. There will not be many who had all three. When we have thus narrowed it down we will try to establish from the evidence which of those people, assuming there are more than one, actually is guilty.” He looked at her to see if she understood not only his bare words, but all the meaning behind them; if it was of any reassurance to her that they knew their profession.
He was rewarded to see her doubt lessen, and her shoulders relax a trifle under the soft fabric of her gown, which was dark green like the room, reminding him of deep shade under trees in summer. But the anxiety was still there.
“It sounds extremely difficult, Mr. Drummond. Surely people must lie