Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [54]
“It’s very fine,” she said sincerely. She thought it was far too good for someone who merely wanted a representation of his possessions and would be blind to the artist’s voice illuminating it like flame. “You should exhibit it before you hand it over. It has the cruelties of nature, as well as the loveliness.”
He flinched as though she had hurt him. “That’s what Emily said.” His voice was quiet; it was more a reflection to himself than a remark to her. “Poor Emily.”
“Did you know George well?” She plunged straight in, watching his eyes and the curious, chiseled mouth. But she saw no alteration but sadness, no evasion.
“No,” he said quietly. “He was a cousin, so naturally I have met him from time to time, but I cannot say I knew him.” He smiled very slightly. “We had few interests in common, but that is not to say I disliked him. On the contrary, I found him very agreeable. He was almost always good-natured, and harmless.”
“Emily thought he was in love with Mrs. March.” She was franker than she might have been with someone else, but he seemed too intelligent to dupe and too perceptive to misunderstand her.
He stared at the painting. “In love?” He turned the phrase over in his mind. “I suppose that is as good a term as any—it covers almost whatever you like. It was an adventure, something daring and different. Sybilla is never a bore—she has too much unknown in her.” He began to wipe the paint off his brush, not looking at Charlotte. “But he would have forgotten her after he left here. Emily is a clever woman, she knew how to wait. George was childish, that’s all.”
Charlotte had known George for seven years, and what William March said was precisely true, and he had seen it as clearly as she.
“But someone killed him,” she persisted.
His hands stopped moving. “Yes, I know. But I don’t believe it was Emily, and it certainly wasn’t Sybilla.” He hesitated, still watching the spread-out hairs of the brush. “I would consider Jack Radley, if I were you. Emily is now a young and titled widow with a considerable fortune, and a most attractive woman. She has already shown him some favor, and he might be vain enough to fancy it could increase.”
“That would be vile!”
He looked up at her, his eyes bright. “Yes. But vileness exists. It seems we can think of nothing so appalling that someone somewhere hasn’t thought of it too—and done it.” His mouth twitched, and with difficulty he controlled it. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pitt. I beg your pardon. I did not wish to offend you.”
“You haven’t, Mr. March. As I am sure you could not have forgotten, my husband is a policeman.”
He swung round, letting the brush drop, and stared at her as if part of him wanted to laugh at the joke on Society. “You must have great courage. Were your family horrified?”
She had been too much in love to take a great deal of notice of anyone else’s feelings, but that seemed a peculiarly insensitive thing to say now to this man, whose wife had responded so fully and so publicly to George. Instead, she told him the easiest lie.
“They were so pleased with Emily marrying Lord Ashworth they tolerated me really quite well.”
But mention of George and Emily only brought back the sharp contrast with Emily’s present loss. “I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, and turned back to the cruel, sensitive painting.
She was dismissed, and this time she accepted it, walking slowly back through the jungle of growth to the rest of the house.
In the afternoon they were visited by the pink-faced curate. He made an embarrassed and rather abrupt apology for the vicar who, apparently, was unable to come in person due to some emergency, the nature of which was unclear.
“Indeed!” Vespasia said with unconcealed skepticism. “How unfortunate.”
The curate was a large young man of obvious West Highland origin. With the bluntness of youth, and perhaps some judgment of his own, he made no effort to embellish the excuse. Charlotte warmed to him immediately and was not surprised to observe that Tassie also seemed