Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [75]
“Stripe,” Charlotte said very quietly. It hardly mattered, but she was glad of an excuse to retaliate.
Mrs. March glared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stripe,” Charlotte repeated. “The policeman’s name is Stripe, not Spot.”
“Stripe, Spot, it’s all the same. I’d have thought you’d have more important things to remember than a policeman’s name.” Mrs. March stared at her, her face cold, eyes like bluish-green marbles. “What are you going to do with your sister? You can’t expect us to bear the burden of responsibility. God knows what she will do next!”
“That was uncalled for,” Jack Radley said furiously. There was instant and icy silence, but he was unabashed. “Emily has enough grief without our indulging in vicious and uninformed speculation.”
Mrs. March sniffed and cleared her throat. “Your speculation may be uninformed, Mr. Radley—although I doubt it. Mine is most certainly not. You may know Emily a great deal more intimately than I do, but you have not known her as long.”
“For heaven’s sake, Lavinia!” Vespasia said hoarsely. “Have you forgotten every vestige of good manners? Emily has buried her husband today, and we have guests at the table.”
Two spots of scarlet stained Mrs. March’s white cheeks. “I will not be criticized in my own house!” she said furiously, her voice rising to a shriek.
“Since you hardly ever leave it anymore, it would seem to be the only place available,” Aunt Vespasia snapped back at her.
“I might have expected that from you!” Mrs. March swung round to glare at Vespasia and knocked over a glass of water. It rolled across the cloth and dripped water noisily down into Jack Radley’s lap, soaking him to the skin, but he was too paralyzed with horror at the scene to move.
“You are perfectly accustomed to having the most vulgar people tramping through your house,” Mrs. March went on, “probing and prying, and talking of obscenities and God knows what among the criminal classes.”
Sybilla gasped and tore her handkerchief. Jack Radley looked at Vespasia in fascination.
“That’s nonsense!” Tassie flew to her favorite grandmother’s defense. “Nobody’s vulgar in front of Grandmama—she wouldn’t let them be! And Constable Stripe is only doing his duty.”
“And if somebody hadn’t murdered George, he wouldn’t have any duty to do in Cardington Crescent,” Eustace pointed out exasperatedly. “And don’t be impertinent to your grandmother, Anastasia, or I shall require you to finish your dinner upstairs in your room.”
Temper flashed in Tassie’s face, but she said nothing more. Her father had dismissed her in the past, and she knew he would do it quite easily now.
“George’s death is not Aunt Vespasia’s fault,” Charlotte said for her. “Unless you are suggesting she killed him?”
“Hardly.” Mrs. March sniffed again, a sound full of irritation and contempt. “Vespasia may be eccentric, even a little senile, but she is still one of us. She would never do such a fearful thing. And she is not your aunt.”
“You’ve tipped your water all over our guests,” Vespasia said curtly. “Poor Mr. Radley is soaked. Do look what you are doing, Lavinia.”
It was so trivial and idiotic it effectively silenced Mrs. March, and there were several moments of peace while the next course was served.
Eustace drew in his breath; his chest swelled. “We have a most distasteful time ahead of us,” he said looking round at each of them in turn. “Whatever our individual weaknesses, we none of us desire a scandal.” He let the word hang in the air. Vespasia closed her eyes and sighed gently. Sybilla still sat totally mute, disregarding everyone, self-absorbed. William looked at Emily, and there was a flash of profound, almost wounding pity in his face.
“I don’t see how we can avoid it, Papa,” Tassie said into the silence. “If it really was murder. Personally I think it was probably some sort of accident, in spite of what Mr. Pitt says. Why on earth would anyone want to kill George?”
“You are very young, child,” Mrs. March said with a curl of her lips.