Enter Pale Death(29)
“The old feller had a suspicion that she was pregnant?” Hunnyton suggested.
Joe’s voice conveyed a grim satisfaction. “Nothing like a suspicion of pregnancy to stir up trouble with the various males in a woman’s entourage, we find in the Smoke, and I expect it’s much the same in deepest Suffolk.”
“Worse,” was the unadorned admission, and Joe could have kicked himself for his ineptitude. Hunnyton’s shake of the head and his knowing grin forgave him and dismissed the idea that Joe should be ever on the alert for potentially offensive remarks.
Joe grinned back, reassured, and poured out more whisky. He was beginning to think Hunnyton was a good bloke to be in harness with. He just hoped together they could plough a straight furrow and avoid careering off into the ditch. “Right. Let’s read through the whole lot again and share insights, shall we?”
HE WOKE AT three in the morning to the sound of a cracked college bell sounding the hour and stayed awake long enough to allow into the conscious front of his mind the thought that he’d shoved to the back when he’d gone to bed well after midnight. How much information of a personal nature had he divulged to this stranger with the receptive gaze and the disarming country growl? In a moment of clarity he remembered he’d bared his soul regarding his feelings for Dorcas, he’d even revealed that Sir James had admitted only days before his wife had died to having intentions below and beyond intellectual support for the wretched girl.
Joe remembered her words to him one April afternoon: “He wants to take things further and I’m considering it.” Delivered with a cool insouciance. Joe had been too devastated to demand to know what precisely was implied by “things” and “further.” Any attempt to spell out to her the habits of men like Truelove would have been greeted with a sophisticated sneer. Dorcas was no ingénue.
But the next week Lavinia Truelove had died and Joe had been left with those tormenting words creeping into his mind, where they’d lodged and festered. He recalled them at the most inopportune moments. Lord! Surely he hadn’t been so indiscreet as to confide that? No. Even faced with a professional hypnotist in a Harley Street consulting room, he’d have managed to censor that much. Certainly. But he’d hinted at—no, it was stronger than a hint—Dorcas’s special powers with animals. And the superintendent had listened, nodding his understanding, quietly making connections while Joe had blundered on forging handcuffs for the girl he loved.
Too late some baleful words of—was it John Dryden? Or was it his mother?—sneaked into his mind to trouble him. He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master. Perhaps he should get it made up in poker work and offer the sentiment to the landlord of the Fleeing Footman?
CHAPTER 8
FRIDAY 23RD JUNE.
Christ! He was right behind her!
This was awkward. Your target was supposed to be in your sights at all times, not breathing down your neck. Lily managed to disguise her start of surprise and fixed a smile on her face. She finished the sentence she’d been addressing to the reception manager at the moment Mr. Fitzwilliam had bounded into the hotel and come to a halt, an impatient presence waiting his turn just behind her right shoulder.
The manager took in the situation at once and made an evaluation. “Mr. Fitzwilliam!” he called out. “Good morning, sir! I’ll be with you directly.” Turning to Lily: “Miss … er … Richmond, I wonder if I might pass you to my assistant, who will be very pleased to handle your registration?”
“Not at all.” Lily shuffled over meekly, leaving space at the counter for the more illustrious client, and Fitzwilliam stepped forward, all bonhomie and effusive thanks. A solitary, middle-aged lady in flowered hat and laced shoes was never going to command the best attention of London hotel staff or the notice of guests and Lily had counted on this when she’d put together her identity for the next two days. It seemed to be working. She greeted the smart young woman who came to attend to her and began to fill in her details for the card from the beginning.
“My name is: Richmond … Vanessa. That’s Miss … and my home address is in Yorkshire.” She dictated it. “Two nights? Yes, that’s right. Single room. I did book in advance. Reason for visit? Pleasure? You’re asking me what am I doing in London?” Lily found an affected deafness always put people off their guard and discouraged them from listening to conversations. A shouting person had nothing to hide and nothing worth hearing, apparently. “I’m not a tourist, my dear! No, no! If you really must make such a personal enquiry you may write down: business. I’m here to work.” She enjoyed the fleeting look of surprise before adding in quiet triumph, “Yes, I’m a working woman! If you can call writing work. Many do not!… Historical novels, dear,” she confided, looking about her to ensure no one was listening in to such a confession. “Romances. I’m here at the Castlemaine,” Lily stressed the name, “because of its connections with the flame-haired, turquoise-eyed beauty of that name … Barbara Castlemaine, one of the mistresses of Charles the Second, the one who became Duchess of Cleveland as a reward for services rendered … You hadn’t connected the name?… Oh, the dashing duchess was strong on the wing in this part of London and I’m spending a couple of days following her traces around the Palace of St. James’s … Yes, dear, you certainly could—they keep all my works at Hatchard’s round the corner in Piccadilly … Now, I asked for a single room that is larger than a dog-kennel and for it to be supplied with a desk and plenty of ink. Stephens blue-black … You have? Jolly good.”