Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [67]
Her eyes flew open and she stared up, squinting in the sun. Jack Radley was standing gracefully, leaning a little against the doorway. He had changed out of his funereal black and was in a pleasant brown. She could think of nothing at all to answer him. The words froze in her brain.
He moved forward and sat on a nursery stool at her feet. The sun made a halo out of the edge of his hair and cast the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek. It all reminded her of the conservatory, and her conscience wrenched at her again. George had been alive then... .
She found an answer at last. “I’m not in the mood for conversation. I don’t feel like forcing myself to be polite anymore, with everyone trying—very clumsily—not to mention murder, while at the same time making it perfectly clear they think it was me.”
“Then I shall avoid the subject,” he replied without a qualm, looking at her with exactly the same warm candor she had seen in him that night he had kissed her so intimately. It brought back very precisely the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, and the thick, soft, texture of his hair under her fingers. Her guilt was overwhelming.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped with unreasonable fury. Normally she could have exchanged harmless banter indefinitely, but the knack had abandoned her. She did not want to talk to Jack Radley at all, about anything. She could not get out of her mind the thoughts she feared he might have with regard to her, the idea that she could have been so attracted to him that when George was dead she would be prepared to think of marrying anyone else—let alone a man who might have murdered him!
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know it’s impossible not to think. I suppose you can’t even put it out of thought for half an hour.”
She looked at him reluctantly. He was smiling and looked so agreeable and innocent here amid these childish things she felt bizarre thinking of murder. And yet the knowledge would not be banished. It was true! Someone had murdered George. She had not done it; she found it hard to think it was Sybilla—she had nothing to gain and so much to lose—and impossible to think it was William. She would love to think it was old Mrs. March, but she could rake up no possible reason. And of course there was the abominable picture of Tassie creeping up the stairs in the night, tired and smelling of blood. Could she have killed George in a fit of madness? But even madness has some reason!
Or even at a very wild extreme, Eustace, to hide Tassie’s affliction? Perhaps she had done something else dreadful before. Could it be to conceal that? But that did not make sense. If Eustace knew Tassie was mad he would hardly seek to marry her to anyone; he would have her locked away, for all their sakes.
Surely it had to be Jack Radley, sitting here two feet away from her, the sun shining on his hair, his shirt dazzling white. She could smell the clean cotton just as she could smell the dust and the sun’s heat on the chair and the tin soldiers.
She avoided his eyes, afraid he would see the fear in her own. If he did see her thoughts and understand them, how would he feel? Hurt, because he cared what she thought of him? Because it was unjust, and he had hoped for better? Angry, because she misjudged him? Or because his plans were failing? How angry? Angry enough to strike out at her?
Or worse, far worse, fearful that she would betray him, become a danger to his safety?
Now she dared not look up. What if he saw all that in her eyes? If he had killed George, then he would now have to kill her too. But he would be caught!
Not if he made it look like suicide. The Marches would be only too glad to accept it and dismiss the whole matter and send the police away, and Thomas would have to go, to accept the obvious. The family would not question it or make an issue—far from it! They would be grateful.
Charlotte would never believe it, of course. But who would take any notice of her? There would be nothing she could do. And even if she could, it would hardly