Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [122]
“Well, I assume so!” Loretta answered after what must have been only seconds, but seemed an age. “Apparently he was found with his hands virtually round her neck, so one would presume so. There seems no other easy explanation.”
“But why?”
“My dear, how should I know? Perhaps he was so obsessed with getting his information he tried to throttle it out of her, and when she couldn’t tell him he lost his temper. It hardly matters to us.”
“But she’s dead!” Veronica’s distress was thick in her voice, even violent.
Loretta was becoming annoyed. “Which is nothing whatsoever to us!” she retorted. “What is one street woman more or less? She had a pink dress—I daresay many women do, especially of that occupation.” Then she spoke more urgently and with a peculiar rasping tone. “Get ahold of yourself, Veronica! You have much to gain, and everything to lose—everything! Remember that. Robert is dead. Let the past stay in the grave where it belongs, and make yourself a decent future with Julian Danver. I’ve done everything I can to help you, God knows, but if you give way to fits of the vapors and maudlin thoughts every time there is a tragedy somewhere, then even I cannot carry you through. Do you understand me?”
There was silence. Emily strained till she could hear her own heart thumping, but there was not even a movement beyond the keyhole.
“Do you understand me?” Loretta’s voice was low and grating, without patience, devoid of pity. Had Emily not heard the words quite plainly, it would have sounded like a threat. Loretta had comforted and supported Veronica for a long time now, and her strength, let alone her patience, seemed to be wearing thin. She too had suffered a loss; Veronica was on the brink of finding another husband, but Loretta would not find another son. Little wonder she thought it was time Veronica behaved less self-indulgently.
“Yes.” Veronica’s voice sounded defiant, yet there was no conviction in it. “Yes, I understand.” And she began to weep.
“Good.” Loretta was satisfied. There was a crackle of taffeta as she sat back. Apparently she was not interested in Veronica’s tears. Perhaps she had seen too many of them.
There was a brisk knock on the door and Emily shot halfway to her feet, tripped on her skirt and fell flat. This time her hair really did come undone; the pin she had removed must have been vital. Frantically she hitched up her skirts and stood up properly; then she let them fall and smoothed her apron to make sure she was decent. She grabbed for the tray, then realized the knock had been on the outer door to the bedroom, not on the dressing room door.
The relief was overwhelming, so physically sharp her legs were shaking. She had time to put the tray down again, pin her hair rather better, take the tray and go out onto the landing and knock at the bedroom door herself.
When she went in Veronica was sitting on the big bed looking exhausted, bright smudges of color in her cheeks; Loretta was perfectly composed, at least on the surface. Piers York stood there looking slightly puzzled, a frown of incomprehension on his usually benign face. It might have been the angle of the light, but for the first time Emily also saw the deep sadness, in an expression in his eyes that stripped quite naked a patience and a disillusionment. Then he spoke and it vanished.
“What have you got?” He regarded Emily curiously. “Tea and bread and butter? Put it on the dressing table.”
“Yes, sir,” Emily moved to obey, putting aside the silver-backed brushes and hand mirror. She did not offer to pour; if they left it awhile they might attribute the tea’s coldness to their own delay.
“Amelia!” Loretta said sharply.
“Yes, ma’am?” Emily tried to look demure as an insecure pin slid out of her hair and fell on the dressing table with a tinkle, and a coil of hair unwound down her cheek.
“For heaven’s sake, girl!” Loretta’s rage exploded. “You