Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [38]
“Who is Sybilla?” he asked, because he had to.
“Eustace’s daughter-in-law,” Vespasia answered wearily. “William March is Eustace’s only son—my grandson.” She said it as if the idea surprised her. “Olivia had ten daughters, seven of whom lived. They are all married except Tassie. Eustace wanted to marry her to Jack Radley. That’s why he is here—to be inspected, so to speak.”
“I assume he does not meet with your approval?”
Her finely arched eyebrows rose and there was a gleam of humor in her eyes, too slight to reach her mouth. “Not for Tassie. She doesn’t love him, nor he her. But he’s pleasing enough, as long as one is sensible and doesn’t expect too much. He has one redeeming feature: I cannot imagine he will ever be a bore, and that is more than one can say of most socially acceptable young men.”
“Who else is there in the house?” He dreaded the answer, because if there had been any other outsider he knew Mrs. March would already have told him. No matter how she disapproved of Emily, she would never choose her for a cause of suicide had there been any other answer available. It reflected too badly on the family.
“No one,” Vespasia said very quietly. “Lavinia, Eustace, and Tassie live here; William and Sybilla were visiting for the Season. George and Emily were to be here for a month, and Jack Radley and I are here for three weeks.”
He could think of nothing to say. George’s murderer had to be one of the eight. He could not believe it was Vespasia herself—and please God it was not Emily!
“I had better go and see them. How is Emily?”
For the first time Vespasia could not look at him; she bent her head and hid her face in her hands. He knew she was weeping and he longed to comfort her. They had shared many emotions in the past: anger, pity, hope, defeat. Now they shared grief. But he was still a policeman whose father had been a gamekeeper, and she was the daughter of an earl. He dared not touch her, and the more he cared for her the more deeply it would hurt him if he trespassed and she were to rebuff him.
He stood helpless and awkward, watching an old lady racked with grief and the beginning of terrible fears.
Anyway, what could he say? That he would somehow alter things, hide the truth if it were too ugly? She would not believe him, or want him to do that. She would not expect him to betray himself, nor would she have done so in his place.
Then instinct overrode reason and he reached forward his hand and touched her shoulder gently. She was extraordinarily thin, for all her height when she stood; her bones felt fragile. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air.
Then he turned and went out of the room.
In the hall there was a girl of perhaps twenty, her hair the brilliant color of marmalade, her face pale under its dapple of freckles. She had hardly a shred of the beauty with which Vespasia had dazzled a generation, but she was just as thin, and there was perhaps an echo of the high cheekbones, the hooded eyelids. She was staring at Pitt with a mixture of horror and curiosity.
“Miss March?” he inquired.
“Yes, I’m Tassie March—Anastasia. You must be Emily’s policeman.” It was a statement, and phrased like that it was surprisingly painful.
“May I speak with you, Miss March?”
She gave a little shiver; her revulsion was not for him—her eyes were too direct—but for the situation. There had been a murder in her home, and a policeman must question her.
“Of course.” She turned and led the way through the dining room to the withdrawing room, cool and silver-green, utterly different from the suffocating boudoir. If that was the old lady’s taste, this must have been Olivia’s, and for some reason Eustace had permitted it to remain.
Tassie offered him a seat and sat down herself on one of the green sofas, unconsciously placing her feet together and holding her hands as she had been taught.
“I suppose I should be honest,” she observed, looking at the pale muslin of her dress. “What do you want to know?”
Now that it came to the moment, there was very little to ask her, but if she was like most well-bred