Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [121]
‘On the contrary, I’m beginning to have a very bad opinion of all this,’ he said. ‘On the urgent advice of a friend, I agree to attend a weekend party which seems to consist of out-of-place politicians, several of the most reactionary members of the House of Lords, a senile bishop and one of the biggest rogues ever called to the Bar. And those are only the ones I recognise. I can only guess about the rest. Quite probably you know more than I do.’
‘No.’
He moved close to me, so close that an observer might have thought he was speaking intimacies. I smelled oil of jasmine from his curls.
‘But as a friend of the family, you almost certainly do know why our host is taking such pains to launch a Hanoverian by-blow on society. Ah, so you did know?’
He must have been watching my expression very closely. I wasn’t aware of giving anything away.
‘Which of the many twigs of our prolific royal tree does this one hang from, I wonder? The Fitzherberts or one of Clarence’s brood? Goodness knows, with so many to choose from, you’d think he might have picked a better specimen.’
‘So of no use at all in your political career?’ I said, deciding to go on the attack.
‘Miss Lock, what is happening here is quite enough to wreck a political career at the outset. I suspect the friend who had me invited of acting from malice, or from very poor judgement, which is even worse. I suppose Mandeville wanted to recruit some of the up-and-coming men to the cause.’
‘You being one of the up-and-coming men?’
He nodded.
‘Miss Lock, when you and I spoke last night, I sensed something wrong. Now I’m entirely sure of it. What really happened to Mrs Beedle?’
I looked down at a butterfly sunning itself on a clump of mignonette, knowing that in the next few breaths I must make one of the hardest decisions of my life. I needed desperately somebody who might believe my story and be in a position to do something about it. Nobody who mattered would listen to me, nor, I feared, to Daniel. His goodness of heart and honesty might be handicaps in the world of the powerful. Mr Disraeli, on the other hand, seemed to have at least a foothold in that world. Whether he was good-hearted and honest I had no way of telling – I rather feared not – and yet I sensed a kind of honour in him. If the butterfly stays where she is when I move my hand, I thought, I shall tell him some of the truth; if she flies, I’ll say nothing. All the time, I was conscious of his eyes on me.
‘You spoke to Mrs Beedle just before we went in to dinner. What she had to say to you was urgent. It must have been quite soon after that she suffered her … heart seizure?’
He made the last two words into a question. I moved my hand. The butterfly stayed where she was.
‘It wasn’t a heart seizure,’ I said. ‘She was struck on the head. My father was killed too, for knowing about Mr Brighton.’
I told him as much of the story as I wanted him to know. It was quite a considerable amount, but there were two people I left out of it: Mr Blackstone and Mrs Martley. I cared very little for Blackstone and yet the memory of him resting his worn-out body on the bench with his face to the sun made me more tender than I might otherwise have been. I said simply that a friend who knew about my circumstances had helped me get employment as a governess with the Mandevilles.
‘As a governess?’ he repeated.
‘Yes, a governess in rose brocade and opals. Borrowed plumes, I fear. Lock’s not even my real name. I’m called Liberty Lane. ’
I expected some change in his expression, but detected none. I went on with my account, but did not name Mrs Martley or tell him she was actually under Mandeville’s roof. When I finished speaking he stood staring down for a while, lower lip thrust out, fingering the gold seal round his neck.
‘This woman, this alleged witness you’re not naming, you say the old lady took her away from Kilkeel.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Mrs Beedle sent her somewhere safe.’
‘And you