Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [29]
“Yes, sir,” Treves agreed softly. “I am afraid it would. I have no alternative but to inform the police.”
Eustace gulped and let out his breath in a long sigh of pain. The struggle was obvious in his face, but he found no resolution.
“Of course,” Vespasia acknowledged. “Perhaps, if you would be so kind, you will call an Inspector Thomas Pitt. He is experienced and—and discreet.”
“If you wish, my lady,” Treves agreed. “I really am very sorry.”
“Thank you. The butler will show you the telephone. Now, I must make arrangements to have Lady Ashworth’s sister come to be with her.”
“Good.” Treves nodded. “For the best, as long as she is a sensible woman. Hysterics won’t help. How is Lady Ashworth? If you wish me to call on her ... ?”
“Not yet—perhaps tomorrow. Her sister is extremely sensible. I shouldn’t think she’s ever had hysterics in her life, and she’s certainly had cause.”
“Good. Then I’ll call again tomorrow. Thank you, Lady Cumming-Gould.” He bowed his head very slightly.
Emily would have to know; telling her would be most painful. First Vespasia would see old Mrs. March. She would be outraged. And that was about the only gossamer-thin thread of perverse satisfaction in all that had happened: Mrs. March would have something other to do than embarrass Tassie.
She was in her boudoir. The downstairs sitting room was reserved for ladies—or it had been, in the days when she ruled the house, as well as her daughters, two nieces, and an impoverished and thus dependent female cousin. She had clung on to her dominion of this strategically placed, octagonal room, renewing the suffocating pink decor, keeping the drapes on the mantelpiece and the pianoforte, the banks of photographs of every conceivable family group, and keeping the numerous surfaces ornamented with dried flower arrangements, wax fruit, a stuffed owl under glass, and multitudinous pieces of embroidery, doilies, runners, and antimacassars. There was even an aspidistra in the jardinière.
Now she was sitting here with her feet up on the pink chaise longue; if she had remained in her bedroom she would have been too far from the center of the house and might have missed something. Vespasia closed the door behind her and sat down on the overstuffed sofa opposite.
“Shall I send for a fresh dish of tea?” Mrs. March asked, eyeing her critically. “You look extremely peaked—quite ten years older.”
“I shall not have time to drink it,” Vespasia answered. “I have some extremely disturbing news to give you.”
“You can still take a dish of tea,” Mrs. March snapped. “You can drink and talk at the same time—you always have. Your face is decidedly pinched. You always favored George, regardless of his conduct. This must come very hard to you.”
“It does,” Vespasia replied curtly. She did not want to discuss her pain, least of all with Lavinia March, whom she had disliked for forty years. “However, when I have told you I shall have to tell others, prepare them for what must happen.”
“For goodness sake, stop talking in circles!” Mrs. March said sharply. “You are ridiculously self-important, Vespasia. This is Eustace’s house and he is quite capable of dealing with the arrangements. And as for Emily, of course, whatever you wish to do about her is your affair, but personally, I think the sooner she is sent back to her mother the better.”
“On the contrary, I shall send for her sister this afternoon. But rather before that, I fancy, we shall have her brother-in-law here.”
Mrs. March’s eyebrows rose; they were round and a little heavy, like Eustace’s, only her eyes were black.
“Has your bereavement robbed you of your wits, Vespasia? You will not have a vulgar policeman in my house. The fact that he is related to Emily is unfortunate, but it is not a burden we are called upon to bear.”
“It will be the least of them,” Vespasia said baldly. “George was murdered.”
Mrs. March stared at her for several seconds in silence. Then she reached for the flowered porcelain bell on the table and rang it instantly.
“I shall have your maid attend you. You had better lie down with