‘I don’t know. He was...a man. Not tall. He were dressed like a clerk or one of them better shopkeepers, brown eyes, I think, or black. I see a dozen of those a day at Madame’s, they look alike in the end. I’d say by his clothes he’s got a wife or someone who sees to his housekeeping, but they ain’t too well-padded. There’s the darning, neat stitches, but enough to say he doesn’t have too many Sunday clothes, see? If he’d have come to Madame Bernieres you can be sure he’d have been palmed off on the country girls who don’t know the tricks yet. He looked serious, scared, but then he ought to, oughtn’t he? Are they still angry, the spirits?’
The silence that followed her agonised question was punctuated by her tearful sniffling and Lucas reined in his impatience. Surely even the irrepressible Miss Silverdale recognised there was nothing more to be extracted from Marcia Pendle, even under the threat of eternal damnation. Finally there was a rustling and a shuddering sigh.
‘Ah, there is much water, fog, they are going away.’
‘But they won’t keep me from George when my time comes?’
‘For now they are appeased. But they say I am not to communicate with them again on your behalf unless they send word first. I dare not defy them.’
Lucas pushed away from the door frame. Marcia Pendle’s tale was far more sensible than Miss Silverdale’s theories. Perhaps now this outrageous young woman would abandon her fantasies of conspiracies. He glanced at the lists decorating the wall behind him and sighed. Not likely. People believed what they wanted to believe and Olivia Silverdale wanted to believe Henry Payton a wronged man.
When the front door closed behind the sniffling Marcia Pendle he entered the parlour. With the reek of perfume, the guttering candles and the garish scarves, it looked like a struggling brothel. Olivia was unwinding the gold-embroidered scarf that secured her curls and they tumbled down, glinting with copper and gold lights as they settled on her shoulders. She twisted them into a knot and secured it with a wooden pin, but tendrils escaped like trailing ivy, framing her face and curling around her neck and ears. Lucas picked up a discarded scarf to keep his hands occupied. It was a bad sign when he began contemplating helping a woman with her coiffure.
‘Well? What did you think?’ she asked the silence.
‘I think that was the worst Balkan accent I have ever had the misfortune to hear.’
Laughter burst in her eyes but her rouged mouth remained serious. It was a peculiar and unsettling combination.
‘It was effective, though, wasn’t it?’ she demanded.
‘That depends on what you consider effective.’ He went to the mantelpiece, snuffing the candles. ‘I think we should remove to your spider’s lair. This room reeks.’
She followed him into the study, untangling scarves as she went and balling them into a rainbowed lump. Without the veil she looked even more a parody of a fortune-teller, her cheeks and lips flared with rouge and her eyes dusky with kohl.
‘Can’t you take off that paint? You look like an actress from one of the lesser theatres.’
The honey-and-moss eyes sparkled with either amusement or annoyance, but her answer was all business.
‘I know we did not learn much beyond the fact that this Eldritch told her what to say to the constable, but at least that is something. We must find him.’
‘Sit down, Miss Silverdale. Let me explain something to you.’
She folded her arms, the tangle of scarves pressed against her bosom like a strangled pet, drawing his gaze to the low-cut bodice of the purple satin monstrosity she wore and to the tantalising cleft between what he judged were two delightfully shaped globes, neither too large nor too small. He regretfully removed his eyes from this unintended display and fixed them instead on hers.
‘Very well, stand if you wish. I will explain in small but explicit words so there can be no chance of a misunderstanding, and you will have to forgive me for not sparing your maidenly blushes because any woman dressed as you are dressed at the moment and pursuing your present course of action can surely survive a little plain speaking. Your godfather had the misfortune to expire mid-coitus—it is rare and highly undesirable, but it happens. It would have been better if the real person involved in this unfortunate situation had hared off and left Payton to be discovered in due course instead of involving a third party, but the fact remains this is nothing more than an unfortunate accident.’
‘But...’
‘But nothing. Your godfather was not perfect, no man is. If the worst you know of him is that he had an affair, then he is a man like many others, however regrettable that fact is. I suggest you accept this and move on, and by move on I mean back home at the soonest possible opportunity.’
‘What of the note I found with your father’s correspondence? What if they are connected after all? What if this Mr Eldritch was involved in his death? Perhaps he had been trying to prevent Henry from doing something or saying something or—’
‘Miss Silverdale,’ he interrupted again, ‘You clearly read too many novels. I have indulged your imagination far enough. You have a day to pack and leave Spinner Street and return whence you came or I will send a messenger to your family informing them of your whereabouts and your activities.’
‘Don’t you even wish to see your father’s letters?’
‘No, thank you. Twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow you should be well on your way out of London. If you need help hiring a post chaise, I can offer my butler’s services. He is very discreet.’
Her arms spread wide, the crushed scarves fluttering in a parody of an exotic dance. ‘How can you be so certain there is no more to this than a weak heart and an officious relation? Can you honestly walk away without a qualm?’
‘Not honestly, sweetheart. Too late for that. But without a qualm, yes.’
‘Oh, don’t be so glib!’
‘Too late for that as well. What the devil do you think you will achieve if you keep rummaging in other people’s rubbish heaps? Do you think you will discover a dastardly plot to defame your godfather that somehow stretches back twenty years to another plot against my father? That you will redeem them from their own iniquity and win your godmother’s gratitude? The world doesn’t operate that way. Just accept that your godfather, like my father, was a weak man who made a mistake, or several. That is the end of this story. Anything else is pure indulgence on your part.’
Except for her garish clothes she looked a model of cool defiance, her shoulders back, her lips pressed firmly together and her eyes disdainful. But her hands gave her away, kneading away at the tangle of scarves, and he was sure he heard the rending of silk. He doubted the colourful fabrics would survive the evening.
Still, when she answered her voice was calm.
‘I know you are probably correct. About them. About me as well. But I must do this. If I walked away now...’ she shook her head ‘...I cannot do it. At least when I leave I shall know I did my best.’
She looked ridiculous but peculiarly appealing with her painted face and beseeching hazel eyes made far too vivid by the kohl. He assessed his options and sighed.
‘Do me a favour and scrub your face clean and put on something that doesn’t look like you stole it off a demi-monde’s back. Then we will talk. Calmly. Is there anything to drink here?’
‘Drink? There is brandy in the parlour. Gypsy Sue suggested having some on hand to make Marcia more generous. Or would you care for tea?’
‘I will find the brandy. Go and change.’
The brandy was surprisingly good and he took it into the study and poured himself a measure and on