Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [30]
“For heaven’s sake, put it down and stop that racket!” Vespasia ordered. “Treves says George was poisoned with digitalis.”
“Nonsense! Or if he was, then he took his own life in a fit of despair. Everyone can see he is in love with Sybilla.”
“He was infatuated with her,” Vespasia corrected almost without thinking. It was only a matter of fact, and almost irrelevant now. “It is not at all the same thing. Men like George don’t kill themselves over women, you should know that. He could have had Sybilla if he wanted her, and probably did.”
“Don’t be coarse, Vespasia! Vulgarity is quite uncalled for!”
“He also killed the dog,” Vespasia added.
“What are you talking about? What dog? Who killed a dog?”
“Whoever killed George.”
“What dog? What has a dog to do with it?”
“Your dog, I’m afraid. The little spaniel. I’m sorry.”
“That proves you’re talking nonsense. George would never kill my dog. He was extremely fond of it—in fact he practically took it from me!”
“That is my point, Lavinia; someone else killed them both. Martin has sent for the police.”
Before Mrs. March could find a retort to that the door opened and a white-faced footman appeared.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Vespasia stood up. “I do not require anything, thank you. Perhaps you had better bring a fresh dish of tea for Mrs. March.” She walked past him and across the hallway to the stairs.
Emily woke up from a sleep so deep, at first she was confused and could not remember where she was. The room was very Oriental, full of whites and greens, with bamboo-patterned wallpaper and brocade curtains with chrysanthemums. The sun was off the windows, and yet the air was full of light.
Then she remembered it was afternoon—Cardington Crescent—she and George were staying with Uncle Eustace... . It all came back in an icy wave engulfing her: George was dead.
She lay and stared at the ceiling without seeing, her eyes fixed on the scrolls of the plasterwork; it could as well have been waves of the sea or summer leaves on a branch.
“Emily.”
She did not answer. What was there to say to anyone?
“Emily.” The voice was insistent.
She sat up. Perhaps replying would provide a diversion, an escape from her thoughts. She could forget for a few moments.
Aunt Vespasia was standing in front of her, Vespasia’s maid a little behind. She must have been there all the time—Emily could remember seeing her white cap and apron and her black dress last thing before she closed her eyes. She had brought her a drink—bitter—it must have had laudanum in it. That was why she had slept when she had thought it impossible.
“Emily!”
“Yes, Aunt Vespasia?”
Vespasia sat down on the bed and put her hand over Emily’s on top of the smooth, embroidered edge of the sheet. It looked very thin and frail, an old hand, blue-veined and spotted with age. In fact, Vespasia looked old; there were hollows of shock round her eyes, and the fine-grained skin that had for so long been blemishless was somehow shadowed.
“I have sent for Charlotte to come and be with you.” Vespasia was talking to her. Emily made an effort to listen, to understand. “I have sent my carriage for her, and I hope she will be here by this evening.”
“Thank you,” Emily murmured automatically. It would be better to have Charlotte here, she supposed. It did not seem to matter a lot. Nobody could change anything, and she did not want to be forced into doing things, making decisions, feeling.
Vespasia’s grip was tighter on her hand. It hurt. “Before that, my dear, Thomas will be here,” Vespasia went on.
“Thomas?” Emily repeated with a frown. “You shouldn’t have