Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [109]
“Good afternoon, Mr. Drummond,” she began, then blushed at the clumsy formality of it. Surely neither of them needed to pretend quite so much? A little social grace to hide behind was good, but too much and it ceased to be a shield and became a mask.
“How kind of you to call,” she said in a rush. “Please come in. It’s turning a little cold, don’t you think? Is it too late to offer you tea?”
“No—thank you,” he accepted, and followed her in. “I mean, no, it is not too late. I should very much like a cup of tea.” The small room was exactly as he had remembered it, cramped, narrow windowed, shabby carpets worn in the center, mismatched furniture, only made special by her few small possessions kept from the house in Belgravia: a painting of the western isles, a small bronze figure of a horse, a few embroidered cushions.
She rang the bell and when her one maid appeared requested tea with a courtesy few women used towards servants. He could not remember whether it was her usual manner or something new since her wildly reduced circumstances. Either way, its graciousness warmed him ridiculously, and its necessity touched him to new sadness.
Eleanor stood by the mantel shelf, looking down at the fire, unlit. It was too early in the season to burn a fire all day, for one who had to be careful of the coal.
“I hope you are not concerned for me?” she said quietly. “It is not necessary, I assure you. My means are sufficient. And I really have no desire now to mix in society.” She looked at him suddenly, her eyes very serious.
“I did not come out of any anxiety for you,” he replied, meeting her gaze.
She blushed, the color rising up her cheeks in a dark tide.
Again he felt exposed. He knew his emotions were in his face, and he had no idea how to hide them.
“How is your case progressing?” she asked quickly. “Are you doing any better?”
She had changed the subject that was unspoken between them, and yet as obvious as if everything had been heard in words. He resented it, and yet he was also grateful.
“No, I think we really know no more than last time I was here,” he replied ruefully. “Pitt is determined it is not the wife or her lover, but I think he is wrong. There really is no evidence either way.”
“Why do you think it is them?” she asked, sitting down at last, and permitting him to do so as well.
“Tragic as it is, it is still the most likely,” he answered. “The only other alternative seems to be to do with the Farriers’ Lane case. And that was closed five years ago. Eleanor …”
She looked up, waiting, her breath indrawn as if she too were about to speak.
“Eleanor, I really don’t care about the case—or any other case especially. It has become less and less important to me lately …”
“I’m sorry—but I expect you will get over it. We all experience a touch of ennui occasionally. Familiar things become tedious for a while. Maybe you need a break from London? Have you thought of going away for a few days? Even a week or two, perhaps?”
All sorts of answers came to his mind. He could not leave Bow Street until this case was resolved. The murder of a judge was too important. It would look as if he did not care, even though there was nothing he could do that Pitt would not do better. He did not wish to inflict his restlessness on his daughters, who would expect him to join their family life. A fortnight with either of his sons-in-law would be far from restful, and he hated being in someone’s house when he had neither a true guest’s status nor a resident’s independence. He would be bored and lonely staying in a hotel, and long walks in the autumn solitude of the hills would leave his problem untouched.
Instead he spoke the simple truth.
“My feeling has nothing to do with London, or the death of Judge Stafford. It has simply sharpened my knowledge of what I must do.”
There was a flicker of fear in her face, which might have meant