Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [44]
“You may not have intended it as such when you spoke.” Vespasia looked straight back at her. “But I dare say it will be the case. On the other hand, summer may slide quite imperceptibly into autumn, and we shall hardly notice the difference until one morning there is a frost, and the first leaves fall.”
“And it is all forgotten,” Jessamyn came back from the window and sat down. “Just a tragedy from the past that was never fully explained. For a while we shall be more careful about the manservants we hire, and then presently even that will pass.”
“It will be replaced by other storms,” Vespasia corrected. “There must always be something to talk about. Someone will make or lose a fortune; there will be a society marriage; someone will take a lover, or lose one.”
Jessamyn’s hand tightened on the embroidered arm of the sofa.
“Probably, but I prefer not to discuss other people’s romantic affairs. I find them a quite private matter, and not my concern.”
For a moment Vespasia was surprized, then she recalled that she never had heard Jessamyn gossiping of loves or marriages. She could only remember conversation of fashion, parties, and even on rare occasions matters of weight like business or politics. Jessamyn’s father had been a man of considerable property, but naturally it had all gone to her younger brother, since he was the male. It had been said at the time the old man died, years ago, that the boy had inherited the money, and Jessamyn the brains. He was a young fool, so far as she heard. Jessamyn had the better part.
The tea came, and they swapped polite reminiscences of the previous Season and speculations as to what the next turn of fashion might be.
Presently she took her leave and met Fulbert at the gateway to the drive. He bowed with amused grace, and they exchanged greetings, hers decidedly cool. She had had enough visiting and was about to continue on her way home when he spoke.
“You’ve been calling upon Jessamyn.”
“Obviously!” she replied tartly. Really, he was becoming fatuous.
“Most entertaining, isn’t it?” His smile widened. “Everyone is rushing back to their own private sins, to make sure they are still covered. If your policeman, Pitt, were the least interested in voyeurism, he would find this better than a peepshow. It is rather like undoing one of those Chinese boxes; each comes apart in a different way, and nothing is what it seems.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” she said coldly.
It was plain from his face that he knew she was lying. She understood him with exactness, even if she had no better than educated guesses as to what the sins in question might be. He did not seem to be offended. He was still smiling, and there was laughter in his face, even in the angle of his body.
“There is a great deal goes on in this Walk you don’t dream of,” he said softly. “The carcass is full of worms, if you break it open. Even poor Phoebe, although she’s too frightened to speak. One of these days she’ll die of pure fright, unless, of course, someone murders her first!”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Now Vespasia hovered between fury at his adolescent pleasure in shocking and a chill of quite real fear that indeed he knew something beyond even the worst imaginings of her own.
But he simply smiled and turned to walk up the driveway toward the door, and she was obliged to proceed on her way without an answer.
It was nineteen days after the murder that Vespasia came to the breakfast table with a frown on her face and an extraordinary wisp of hair trailing across her head completely out of place.
Emily stared at her.
“My maid tells me a most peculiar story.” Vespasia seemed not quite sure where to begin. She never ate a heavy breakfast, and now her hand hovered over the toast rack, then the fruit, but could not settle for either.
Emily had never seen her so out of countenance before. It was disturbing.
“What sort of story?” she demanded. “Something to do with Fanny?”
“I’ve no idea.” Vespasia’s eyebrows went up. “Not apparently.”
“Well, what is it?” Emily was growing