Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [39]
“Do you think George was in love with your sister-in-law?” he said without preamble.
Her eyebrows shot up, but she retained her composure with an aplomb worthy of an older woman.
“No. But he thought he was,” she replied. “He would have got over it. I understand that sort of thing happens from time to time. One just has to put up with it, which Emily did superbly. I don’t think I should have been so composed—not if I loved someone. But Emily is terribly sensible, far more than most women, and infinitely more than most men. And George was—” She swallowed, and her eyes filled with tears. “George was very nice, really. I beg your pardon.” She sniffed.
Pitt fished in his breast pocket and brought out his only clean handkerchief. He passed it to her.
She took it and blew her nose fiercely. “Thank you.”
“I know he was,” he agreed, filling the silence before it became an obstacle between them. “What about Mr. Radley?”
She looked up with a watery smile. “I think he’s quite tolerable. In fact, as long as I don’t have to marry him, I daresay I should like him well enough. He makes me laugh—or he did.” Her face fell.
“But you don’t wish to marry him?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Does he wish to marry you?”
“I shouldn’t think so. He doesn’t love me, if that is what you mean. But I will have some money, and I don’t think he has any.”
“How very candid you are.” She was almost worse than Charlotte, and he found himself wishing he could protect her from all the anguish that was bound to come.
“One should not lie to the police in matters of importance,” she said quite sincerely. “I was really very fond of George, and I like Emily, too.”
“Someone in this house murdered him.”
“Yes. Martin told me so—he’s the butler. It seems impossible. I’ve known them all for years—except Mr. Radley, and why on earth should he kill George?”
“Might he have imagined Emily would marry him if George were dead?”
She stared at him. “Not unless he is a lunatic!” Then she turned it over in her mind, realizing the only other possibilities. “But I suppose he could be. You can see very little indeed of some people in their faces, watching them do all the usual things everyone does, eating theirdinner, making silly conversation, laughing a bit, playing games, writing letters. There is a way of doing all these things, and you are taught it as a child, like the steps of a dance. It doesn’t have to mean anything at all. You can be any kind of person underneath it. It’s sort of uniform.”
“How perceptive you are. You are like your grandmother.”
“Grandmother Vespasia?” she asked guardedly.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” She breathed out in relief. “I am not in the least like the Marches. Have you solved anything?”
“Not so far.”
“Oh. Is that all? I should like to go and see how Emily is.”
“Please do. I shall find your brother, if I can.”
“He’ll be in the conservatory, at the far end. He has a studio there.” She stood up, and courtesy bade him stand also.
“Painting?”
“He’s an artist. He’s very good. He’s had several things in the Royal Academy.” There was pride in her voice.
“Thank you. I shall go and find him.” As soon as she had gone he turned to the row of French doors and the vines and lilies beyond. The conservatory felt humid and full of heavy growth and smelled of lush flowers and hot, perfumed air. The afternoon sun beat on the windows till it was like an equatorial jungle. In the winter a giant furnace maintained the temperature, and a pond the dampness.
William March was precisely where Tassie had said he would be, standing in front of his easel, brush in his hand, the sunlight making a fire of his hair. His thin face was tense, utterly absorbed in the image on his canvas; a country scene full of glancing sunlight and fragile, almost insubstantial