Seven Dials - Anne Perry [88]
“I have acquired some interesting relatives since we last met,” she said with ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to discuss. “By marriage, of course. I daresay you recall my late great-nephew, George Ashworth?”
Arthur’s face fell into immediate, quite genuine regret. “I am so sorry! What a tragedy.”
His words enabled her to dispense with whole paragraphs of explanation.
“There is much tragedy indeed,” she agreed with a slight smile. “But through his marriage I acquired a great-niece whose sister is married to a policeman . . . of remarkable ability.” She saw his start of amazement. “I have from time to time involved myself in certain issues, and learned to understand some of the causes of crime in a way I did not when I was younger. I daresay the same is true for you. . . .” She let it hang, not quite a question.
“Oh, yes, police work is . . .” He lifted his shoulders. She noticed again how much thinner he was, but it was not unbecoming.
“Exactly!” she agreed firmly. “That is why I have come to you. You are in a unique position to give me some small assistance.” Before he could ask her what it was, she hurried on. “I am sure you are as puzzled and distressed as I am by this miserable business at Eden Lodge. I have known Saville Ryerson for many years—”
Arthur shook his head. “I can tell you nothing, Vespasia, for the simple reason that I know nothing.”
“Of course!” She smiled. “I am not asking you for information, my dear. It would be entirely inappropriate. But I would like to be able to see Saville myself, urgently, and in private.” She did not wish to offer any explanation, but she had prepared one in case he should request it.
“It would be most unpleasant for you,” he said awkwardly. “And there really is nothing you can do for him. He has all the necessities, and any luxuries he is permitted. The charge is accessory to murder, Vespasia. For any man that is serious, but to one who has had the position and the trust that he has, it is devastating.”
“I am aware of that, Arthur. As I said, I have had far more experience of the less-attractive sides of human nature since poor George’s death. I have even been of assistance now and then. If I am placing you in a position of difficulty, where honor obliges you to refuse me, then please do me the courtesy, for old friendship’s sake, of telling me so directly.”
“No, it does not!” he said quickly. “I . . . I was thinking only of your sensibilities, and embarrassment if you should find him greatly . . . changed. You may not be able to avoid the conviction that he is after all guilty. I . . .”
“For heaven’s sake, Arthur!” she said impatiently. “Have you confused me with someone else in the pleasant summers of your past? I fought on the barricades in Rome in ’48. I am not a stranger to unpleasantness! I have seen squalor, betrayal, and death in many forms—some of them in high society! May I see Saville Ryerson—or not?”
“Of course you may, my dear. I shall see to it this afternoon. Perhaps you will do me the honor of taking luncheon with me? And we shall talk of the parties we used to have when summers were longer—and warmer than they seem to be now.”
She smiled at him with true affection, remembering the yew walk, and a certain herbaceous border with a blaze of blue delphiniums. “Thank you, Arthur. I should be delighted.”
SHE WAS SHOWN into the room where her meeting with Ryerson had been arranged, and the guard withdrew and left her alone. It was a little before six in the evening, and already the gas lamps were burning inside because the single window was high and narrow.
She had not long to wait before the door opened again and Ryerson came in. Tired as he was, robbed of the immaculate shirts and cravats he normally wore, he looked pale, a little untidy. But he was still a big man, not shrunken or bowed by fear, although she saw it in his eyes as soon as the door was closed again and he turned to her.
“Good evening, Saville,” she said quietly. “Please sit down. I dislike having to crane my neck to see you.”
“Why have you