Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [102]
‘Are you Minnie Maude?’ he asked.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that in’t yer business,’ she replied. ‘If yer want the master, yer gimme a card, an’ I’ll ask ’im to call on yer.’
He could not help smiling. ‘I’ll give you a card, by all means.’ He fished for one in his pocket and passed it to her, then wondered if she could read. He had become used to Gracie reading, since Charlotte had taught her.
Minnie Maude looked at the card, then up at him, then at the card again.
He smiled at her.
The blush spread up her cheeks in a hot tide. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she stumbled over the words. ‘I din’t know yer.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘You shouldn’t allow anyone in unless you know who they are, and not just because they say so.’
She stood back, allowing him to pass. He went into the familiar hallway, and immediately smelled the lavender floor polish. The hall mirror was clean, the surfaces free of dust. Jemima’s shoes were placed neatly side by side under the coat stand.
He walked down to the kitchen and looked around. Everything was as it should be: blue-and-white ringed plates on the Welsh dresser, copper pans on the wall, kitchen table scrubbed, the stove burning warm but not over-hot. He could smell newly baked bread and the clean, comfortable aroma of fresh laundry hanging from the airing rail up near the ceiling. He was home again. There was nothing wrong, except that his family was not there. But he knew where Charlotte was, and the children were at school.
‘Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir?’ Minnie Maude asked in an uncertain voice.
He did not really need one so soon after leaving Vespasia’s, but he felt she would like to do something familiar and useful.
‘Thank you,’ he accepted. He had been obliged to buy several necessities for the days he had been in France, including the case in which he now carried them. ‘I have a little laundry in my bag, but I don’t know whether I shall be home for dinner or not. I’m sorry. If I am, something cold to eat will do very well.’
‘Yes, sir. Would you like some cold mutton an’ ’ot bubble and squeak? That’s wot Daniel an’ Jemima’ll be’avin’, as it’s wot they like. ’Ceptin’ they like eggs wif it.’
‘Eggs will be excellent, thank you.’ He meant it. It sounded familiar, comfortable and very good.
Vespasia had warned Pitt not to go to Lisson Grove, but he had no choice, and at least now he was far more aware of the situation. He could not learn what was really planned, rather than the bluff that had taken him to France and kept him there so long. He was still both angry and embarrassed by the ease with which he had been duped.
Also he could do nothing to help Narraway – and now, obviously, Charlotte as well – without information he could learn only there.
And of course there was the question of explaining what had happened to Gower. He had no idea how badly he had been disfigured by the fall from the train, but every effort would be made to identify him, and the police were bound to succeed sooner or later. Indeed, when he reached Lisson Grove he might find that it had already happened.
What should his story be? How much of the truth could he tell without losing every advantage of surprise that he had? He did not know who his enemies were, but they certainly knew him. His instinct was to affect as much ignorance as possible. The less they considered him a worthwhile opponent, the less likely they were to eliminate him. It would be a manner of camouflage, at least for a while.
He should be open and honest about the attack on the train. It was a matter of record with the police. But it would be easy enough – highly believable, in fact – to claim that he had no idea who the man was; remove every thought that it was personal.
He had last seen Gower in St Malo, when they agreed that Pitt should come home to see what Lisson Grove knew of any conspiracy, and that Gower should remain in France and watch Frobisher and Wrexham, and anyone else of interest.