Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.
‘I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’
Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’
‘He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him, what he does. Anything. And, besides that, anything else which you can find of his doings, good and bad.’
‘I can’t say I’ve come across him,’ mused Porter. ‘I’ve heard whispers, nothing more. He’s not the only one with strange tastes, you know.’
‘I want more evidence than whispers,’ said Cobie, curtly, ‘and the less you tell anyone else of this, the better. Be discreet, be careful, and I’ll pay you well. Report back here to me while I’m in town. When I go to Markendale next week, you may send me a written report there. Our man will be staying at Markendale, too. While he’s out of town, pursue discreet enquiries among the staff of his London home, and among the underworld in the East End.’
‘Understood,’ said Porter. The man before him was paying him enough to inspire loyalty as well as discretion. He said, drawing a bow at venture, ‘These child murders. Will Walker’s in charge of the investigation. I used to work with him. Ever come across him?’
‘Yes.’ Cobie was his laconic business self, offering nothing. ‘By chance.’
‘Good man, Walker. You can trust him. Stood by me when things went wrong. I still see him occasionally.’
‘Ah,’ Cobie said, ‘I’m glad you told me. If you do come across him while you’re working for me, don’t let him know that you are. That’s an unbreakable order. Break it, and I’ll fire you on the spot.’
‘Right.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Trust me. Mum’s the word, sir.’
That was that. Everything was now in train, and he and Dinah could go to Markendale with that out of the way, and hope that Porter might find anything—or something—which he could use.
Dinah’s understanding of her husband had become so subtle that she knew that something was troubling him, even though to all outward appearances he was still as charmingly in control of himself as usual. She wished that he would confide in her, but was bitterly aware that he would not—because of her youth, she supposed.
It was while this was worrying her that a few days before they left for Markendale Violet arrived one afternoon, everything about her proclaiming that she was ripe for mischief. The way she eyed her sister, the dramatic fashion in which she sat down and ate her tea, almost as though she were playing a society lady on the stage, warned Dinah that something was afoot.
Violet began innocently enough. ‘Do you see much of Susanna Winthrop these days?’ she enquired casually.
Dinah shook her head. ‘No, she doesn’t visit us often, and we have only visited her on a few occasions. Recently, on her birthday, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Violet bit into a cucumber sandwich, and said carelessly, ‘I never really supposed that Apollo would be faithful to you after the first flush of marriage was over, but I didn’t think that he would go a-roving so soon, and quite so near home.’
Dinah’s hands, hovering over the silver teapot—she had been about to pour them both a second cup—stilled. She dropped them into her lap and said tonelessly, ‘I really don’t know what you are trying to tell me, Violet. It might be better if you spoke plainly, then I would not be able to misunderstand you.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand me,’ drawled Violet poisonously, ‘I thought to spare you a little, but since you wish to bite the bullet, do so by all means. The gossip—and I am astonished that you have not heard it—is that Susanna Winthrop is pregnant, that the father of the child cannot be her husband, and to put it plainly—as you wished—the father happens to be your husband.’
All that Dinah could hear was the relentless ticking of the clock, and something inside her which said, Is that what has been exercising him all this time? An affair with Susanna?
Aloud she said, pleased that the Marquise’s training appeared to be able to allow her to withstand this appalling news—supposing that it was the truth—‘Now that I do not believe, Violet. It is my understanding that she has been having an affaire with Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, and that Cobie has been troubled over it. He hinted as much to me.’
‘Oh, you poor dear innocent!’ Violet put down her cup and leaned forward commiseratingly. ‘It’s all a blind, can’t you see? I have every reason to know that Sir Ratcliffe’s interest in Susanna Winthrop has been quite innocent, and that she and Apollo have been using it to disguise their own activities. Besides, I am reliably informed that they have been lovers for years, despite the difference in their ages.’
Could this possibly be true? thought Dinah numbly. Or was it merely Violet being spiteful? Surely Cobie wouldn’t betray her with his foster-sister—and so soon? She thought of their happy days and nights together, but she also thought of what he had said to her more than once, ‘You are not to love me, Dinah.’
Was he saying that in order to allow himself to be unfaithful? She felt her throat close. She wanted to scream at Violet, to shriek at her, to…
Instead she said calmly, ‘What nonsense, Violet. I am not foolish enough to expect my husband to be permanently faithful to me. That, I have come to understand, is the way of the world. It puts a different complexion on Mother’s behaviour, doesn’t it? Besides, I don’t believe he would do this to me so soon after our marriage.’
‘But what did he marry you for?’ asked Violet triumphantly. ‘Not for love, of that I am sure. And having got you, and turned you from a timid little mouse into someone half-way presentable, what on earth is there to keep him faithful, tell me that?’
‘Could we drop this as a subject for discussion, Violet?’ Dinah was proud of the steadiness of her voice. ‘Since it is mere speculation on both our parts, it is all rather pointless.’
‘Well, if you wish, but you did say that you wanted me to speak plainly—which I have done.’
‘And I have listened to you. Now, would you like some more tea, and perhaps you could advise me on what to take to Yorkshire. I am afraid my Parisian teacher didn’t include that in her training.’
‘The Marquise de Cheverney, wasn’t it?’ Violet seemed determined to be as poisonous as she could. ‘Another of his mistresses, one supposes. Really darling, you were hardly the person to be plunged headfirst into such a galère!’
‘Perhaps you might like to describe the kind of person who would be fit for it,’ retorted Dinah glacially, ‘I doubt whether Cobie would have wished to marry her!’
Violet inclined her head graciously. ‘There is that. I suppose that naïveté would be more his style. No competition for him, no need to worry that you are erring off the straight and narrow. Not yet, any way.’
Dinah would have liked to throw her tea straight into Violet’s smiling face. Her new self-control precluded any such thing. ‘Are you suggesting that I follow your way of life, Violet? Would you care for me to compete with you for the Prince’s favours? You once hinted that he might like charming innocence. Shall I try to find out?’
This was all delivered in a tone of cool self-control, nothing shrill about it.
‘Oh, we have grown up, haven’t we?’ Violet murmured. ‘His doing, no doubt. Now I wonder how Apollo would react to an unfaithful wife? It might be rather dangerous to find out. On the other hand…’