Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [105]
Vespasia had not intended to, but she glanced at Sheridan, then wished she had not. In spite of all her wish to drive it out, the thought returned to her again. Could he have killed Magnus, rather than see him descend any further? Or even in order to preempt the hangman?
She could understand how one quiet shot to the back of the head would be immeasurably more merciful. Had he done that? Whatever Magnus’s sins, Sheridan had loved his son. The pain of it was etched forever in his face.
“We don’t know who they are, what connections they have, even what foreign allies these anarchists may have to draw on,” Denoon was saying, oblivious of grief, or perhaps not caring. “The dangers are enormous. We cannot underestimate them. Whatever the embarrassment to ourselves, our duty is clear.”
“You speak as if they had unity,” Cordelia interrupted. “I don’t think we should assume that is so.”
He looked annoyed. “I don’t know what you mean. I have no idea whether they have unity or not. I am only concerned with getting rid of them.”
“My son was among them, whatever his delusions of purpose.” Cordelia’s voice was tight and thick with emotion. “Someone killed him. I wish to know who, and see him hanged.”
Fear flared up in Vespasia again that it could have been Sheridan. It was more than just barely conceivable; it actually seemed possible. It raced through her mind. How could she protect him? How could she do something to prevent anyone knowing, even Pitt?
She saw Enid staring at Sheridan also, as if the same terror gripped her. What did she know? How could she know anything, unless he had told her? Would he do that, lay such a burden on her? Or had she simply guessed? Did she know him well enough that he could not have such a secret from her?
He must have changed from the man Vespasia had known. Would that man have killed anyone, for any reason? She did not know. Time, pain, and love change things. But she still believed Cordelia was the one who would kill to save herself, her honor, her reputation. She had the steel in her heart. But who could she use to actually pull the trigger? Who owed her enough, or was sufficiently afraid of her?
What did Enid know, or the footman she seemed to trust so much?
“We’d like to see all the anarchists hanged,” Denoon said roughly. “I really don’t care what for.” He was looking at Cordelia, not Sheridan. “Knowing who is individually guilty is a luxury we may not have, satisfying as it would be.”
“Possibly not,” she said coldly. “But I shall still try!”
His face was bleak. “I advise against it. There may be things about Magnus you would prefer not to know, not to mention prefer were not made public in a courtroom. You should consider long and hard before you tear open issues of which you do not know the nature or the extent.”
She looked at him with loathing, her face like stone. “Do you know something about my son’s death that I do not, Edward?”
“Of course he doesn’t!” said Enid desperately, half-rising to her feet. Deliberately she did not look at Sheridan. “That is absurd! I think grief has made you forget yourself, Cordelia.”
“On the contrary!” Cordelia retorted. “Grief has made me remember a great deal that I should never have let slip from my mind!”
“We all know many things.” Enid’s look did not flinch. She faced her sister-in-law almost without blinking, her body stiff, her eyes hard. “Most of them are best kept silent, if we are to live in any kind of peace. I am sure if you consider it, you will agree with me.”
Cordelia’s face went scarlet, and then the color ebbed away, leaving her white. She turned to Sheridan, but it was impossible to tell from her expression if it were for help or any of a dozen other reasons.
He looked tired, almost indifferent. It seemed all old and stale to him.
Vespasia felt surrounded by pain and anger she did not understand. Perhaps if she remained she