Funeral in Blue - Anne Perry [6]
She had still come to no useful decision when she reached the house and went up the steps to pull the doorbell. She was admitted by the maid, who showed her into the withdrawing room. She had not been there for some time, but this was the house she had grown up in, and every detail was familiar, as if she had walked straight into the past. The opulent dark green curtains seemed not ever to have been moved. They hung in exactly the heavy folds she remembered, although that must be an illusion. In the winter, at least, they would be drawn every evening. The brass fender gleamed, and there was the same Staffordshire pottery vase with late roses on the table, a few petals fallen onto the table’s shiny surface. The carpet had a worn patch in front of the armchair her father had used, and now Charles.
The door opened and Imogen came sweeping in, her skirts fashionably full, a beautiful pale plum-pink which only someone of her dark hair and fair skin could have worn well. Her jacket was a deeper shade and perfectly cut to flatter her waist. She looked radiant and full of confidence, almost excitement.
“Hester! How lovely to see you!” she exclaimed, giving her a swift, light hug and kissing her cheek. “You don’t call often enough. How are you?” She did not wait for an answer, but whirled around and picked up the fallen petals, crushing them in her hand. “Charles said you went to America. Was it awful? The news is all about war, but I suppose you’re used to that. And the train crash in Kentish Town, of course. Sixteen people were killed, and over three hundred injured! But I suppose you know that.” A frown flickered across her face, then disappeared.
She did not sit down, nor did she offer Hester a seat. She seemed restless, moving around the room. She rearranged the roses slightly, collapsing one altogether and having to pick up more petals. Then she shifted one of the candlesticks on the mantelpiece to align it with the one at the opposite end. She was quite clearly in the last sort of mood for a confidential discussion of any kind, let alone on a subject so intimate as a love affair.
Hester realized what an impossible task she had undertaken. Before she could learn anything at all she would have to reestablish the friendship they had had before Hester had met Monk. Where on earth could she begin without sounding totally artificial?
“Your dress is lovely,” she said honestly. “You always had a gift for choosing exactly the right color.” She saw Imogen’s quick look of pleasure. “Are you expecting someone special? I should have written before I came. I’m sorry.”
Imogen hesitated, then rushed on, speaking rapidly. “Not at all. I’m not expecting anyone. Actually, I’m going out. It’s I who should apologize, leaving so soon after you have arrived. But of course I’m delighted you came! I really should call upon you; it’s just that I’m never sure when it will be convenient.” There was too much enthusiasm in her voice, but she met Hester’s eyes only momentarily.
“Please do,” Hester responded. “Let me know, and I shall make certain I am at home.”
Imogen started to say something, then stopped, as if she had changed her mind. In a way they were like strangers, and yet the bond that tied them together made it more uncomfortable than had they known nothing of each other.
“I’m pleased you called,” Imogen said suddenly. Now she looked directly at Hester. “I have a gift for you. I thought of you as soon as I saw it. Wait, and I shall fetch it.” And in a swirl of skirts she was gone, leaving the door open, and Hester heard her feet lightly cross the hall.
She returned within minutes, carrying an exquisite trinket box