Shadows & Lies (23 page)
“Inspector Crockett!” An indignant flush rose to the doctor's hairline. “You must know I cannot possibly answer that. I was not her medical adviser in that sense. I never examined her physically. And even had I done so, under no circumstances would I divulge what I know.” He stretched out his arm and with a white, manicured hand, rang a brass bell on his desk.
Crockett had no alternative but to leave.
Â
Since Dr Harvill had not been disposed to give Mrs Smith's address, perhaps the hospital might be persuaded, thought Crockett as he walked back along the discreet avenue where the nursing home was situated, cursing himself for having played the interview badly, and for letting Harvill get the better of him. One thing he could now do, however, was to send again to the Yorkshire Crowthers and ask if they knew anyone by the name of Hannah Smith, which might conceivably be the reason for Rosa Tartaryan having their address. It was another instance of clutching at straws, but if the dead woman had been of a blackmailing turn of mind, it was possible they might have been next on the list.
Â
“Well, well! Sebastian, my dear â it isn't often we have the honour of seeing see you
chez nous,”
said Sylvia.
chez nous,”
said Sylvia.
As a welcome, it was scarcely warm, despite the fact that she was smiling and patting his hand. Two minutes, and he was already irritated with his sister and wishing he hadn't come â this after debating the wisdom of such a visit for so long, despite his instructions to himself as he'd made his way to the pretty but rather small house off Sloane Street, where she and Algy lived.
But he had resolved that he would not quarrel with her, no matter how she provoked him. It didn't really matter a jot what she thought, or said.
But he had resolved that he would not quarrel with her, no matter how she provoked him. It didn't really matter a jot what she thought, or said.
When he didn't respond to her little barb, she made a moue, then looked expectant, but he was not to be drawn, not just yet. He had brought messages from his grandmother which he must first deliver. He put a box of Sylvia's favourite rose creams on the white lacquered table and took a deep breath, bearing in mind what he and Louisa had agreed, that he must not ruin his chances. “I came as soon as I heard you were back from Biarritz.”
Dusk was beginning to fall. He had found her leafing through the social gossip in the
London Mail.
The all-white room, relieved only by curtains patterned in a rather pallid pink and a curious shade of green, was strictly without knick-knacks, or even a family photograph or two. The sole ornamentation was afforded only by a few languid paintings of iris or lilies, and a high-shouldered pewter vase on the mantelpiece, with a knob of turquoise stuck to its middle, containing three peacock feathers. Neutrality was âin' at the moment; nevertheless Sebastian thought this was going a bit too far.
London Mail.
The all-white room, relieved only by curtains patterned in a rather pallid pink and a curious shade of green, was strictly without knick-knacks, or even a family photograph or two. The sole ornamentation was afforded only by a few languid paintings of iris or lilies, and a high-shouldered pewter vase on the mantelpiece, with a knob of turquoise stuck to its middle, containing three peacock feathers. Neutrality was âin' at the moment; nevertheless Sebastian thought this was going a bit too far.
On the other hand, Sylvia herself was looking very chic and ornamental, dressed with modish luxury in a Directoire-style tea gown of maroon shot silk, its olive green lights accentuating the green of her long, cat-like eyes. She was always expensively dressed â Algy, Sebastian had to admit, was more than generous in that direction â and today she wore some very up-to-date silver jewellery, set with what he thought were bloodstones. With her white skin, her dark, attractively waved hair, and the uprightness of her little figure, she was extremely attractive. Small, dark, clever and amusing. Generally regarded as something of a beauty, though Sebastian was not sure about that; it all depended on her mood. And too thin, perhaps. Never trust a thin woman, Inky Winthrop was fond of saying, especially one whose clear profile showed a nose a little too sharp, a chin just a shade too determined. “I do have some news __” he began.
“You're going to be married!”
“No, Sylvia.”
His irritation returned, he forgot how he had been going to
continue. Trying to get comfortable on an excessively upright chair with a long, straight back and no cushion, wanting any topic of conversation but that, he incautiously mentioned an item of news he had seen reported about her friend, Annie Besant.
continue. Trying to get comfortable on an excessively upright chair with a long, straight back and no cushion, wanting any topic of conversation but that, he incautiously mentioned an item of news he had seen reported about her friend, Annie Besant.
“I hope you're not going to lecture me, Sebastian.”
“Would I dare?”
She smiled. “Good. Because I'm not disposed to talk about her.”
From this he gathered that Mrs Besant, like many another of Sylvia's enthusiasms, had been abandoned. He could not know for what reason, nor did he wish to know. He was only too relieved to find the unsuitable friendship was over. She was a woman, Mrs Besant, who, despite her good works, inspired and irritated in equal parts.
Sylvia had grown tired of waiting for him to come to the point. “I expect you've come to tell me about this new little idea of yours, then? But I must tell you, I've already heard, from Mama. I saw her yesterday. Monty gave us tea in Fortnums. These are some of their cakes. Do have one of these chocolate ones, they're divine.”
This little idea!
And there he had been working like a black for the last few weeks, throwing himself into learning the mundane practicalities of his new profession as Arthur Wagstaffe had advised, acquainting himself with drains and landfalls and damp courses with as much energy as he'd previously followed his other trivial pursuits. How right his prospective employer had been. Sebastian had never been naive about how much there was to building even the simplest of houses â but there was much more to learn than he had ever imagined. But as a means to an end, he found it a better antidote to boredom than racing, chasing pretty girls or anything else, for that matter, had ever been.
And there he had been working like a black for the last few weeks, throwing himself into learning the mundane practicalities of his new profession as Arthur Wagstaffe had advised, acquainting himself with drains and landfalls and damp courses with as much energy as he'd previously followed his other trivial pursuits. How right his prospective employer had been. Sebastian had never been naive about how much there was to building even the simplest of houses â but there was much more to learn than he had ever imagined. But as a means to an end, he found it a better antidote to boredom than racing, chasing pretty girls or anything else, for that matter, had ever been.
“No thank you, no cake, I had rather a heavy lunch. I didn't know Mama was in Town, and â well, seeing that you've taken the wind out of my sails, what do you think? Were you surprised?”
“Utterly
bouleversée â
what else did you expect? But dear Seb, you don't usually do anything so out of character, do you? I do
so hope you won't regret it.”
bouleversée â
what else did you expect? But dear Seb, you don't usually do anything so out of character, do you? I do
so hope you won't regret it.”
“Is that what you said to Harry when he resigned his commission to become a journalist?”
He should not have said that, not even lightly. It was a Sylvia-sharp remark, unworthy. Though she tried to hide the grief she felt at the loss of Harry with a brittle sophistication, she was still raw at losing her twin. Her face closed every time his name was mentioned. But he had little time to regret his remark this time, for she came back immediately, with no sign of hurt and a sharp little dart of her own.
“A journalist? Hardly that, my dear boy. Not a professional one, at any rate. But Harry was always doing something out of character â that's what made him so interesting, wasn't it?”
He deserved that. Though he wasn't sure whether she had meant a joke or an insult. Like Harry, one never really knew with Sylvia. He hadn't ever, he now realised, thought of them as separate beings, but rather as a single, inseparable unit, Harry-and-Sylvia. And yet, Harry had kept from their sister the biggest secret of his life â¦
Or had he?
He looked across at her and found she was regarding him steadily over the rim of her delicate china teacup. “Well, since you haven't seen fit to go into politics, or something equally sensible, I can but say I hope you may find what you are going to do rewarding. We've never had an architect in the family before. Perhaps you'll turn out to be another Christopher Wren. Just imagine â Papa agreeing to it!”
“It's taken him nearly two months â though as he still believes it's a passing fancy, and that I'll come round in the end, he's decided he might as well let me have my head for the time being.” Sebastian grimaced. He'd slowly come to accept that he had mistaken his father's silence over breakfast that morning at Belmonde for anger, and felt sure now that Sir Henry had in fact probably been too amazed to be angry. Indeed, no one had actually shown any opposition to what he proposed to do. Not even Sylvia, it seemed â though perhaps this was because their mother had paved the way and given her time to get used to the idea. Taking her lead from Sir Henry's surprising, if grudging,
acquiescence, Adele had accepted the inevitable with apparent good grace. Even Lady Emily, in her own way, had owned herself relieved to know that he had at last found something with which to occupy himself. It seemed that he had been envisaging demons where none were likely to exist. “While Father can't bring himself to say that he actually approves, he's at last come round to agreeing that it will certainly be better for me â
at present â
than doing nothing, as he puts it.”
acquiescence, Adele had accepted the inevitable with apparent good grace. Even Lady Emily, in her own way, had owned herself relieved to know that he had at last found something with which to occupy himself. It seemed that he had been envisaging demons where none were likely to exist. “While Father can't bring himself to say that he actually approves, he's at last come round to agreeing that it will certainly be better for me â
at present â
than doing nothing, as he puts it.”
“And what does your little friend Louisa say?”
“I'm happy to say she heartily approves.” He did not intend to get into a discussion about Louisa, and went on, “It's just that I'm not cut out for the sort of life Father still envisages for me, though I suppose I shall have to face it some day. In any case, as long as he's at Belmonde, I shall be surplus to requirements.”
“But he won't always be there, will he? And then it'll be your turn to think about an heir.”
“Please, Sylvia â” He put up a fending off hand. “Not now.”
She lifted her shoulders. “So â what else is there to bring you out here to see me?”
“If you've been talking to Mama, I suppose you've already heard they've found the name of the woman who was murdered at Belmonde.”
“Yes, some Armenian woman, I gather.” She busied herself with the teacups. “How did they find out who she was, by the way?”
“Some of her friends reported to the police that she was missing, and she was identified from her clothing â and so on. Don't you find it all extremely odd? Why someone like that would be out at Belmonde? Apparently, her name was Rosa â Tartaryan, I believe it was, or something very like.”
“Do you suppose she intended planting a bomb?” Sylvia gave a light laugh as she passed him his refilled cup.
“That's what we'd all like to know, wouldn't we? Perhaps we shall know soon, now that the police have something to go on.”
A small silence fell on the room. His relief at hearing that the identity of the dead woman had at last been revealed had known no bounds. She was a stranger after all, not the woman he had feared she might have been. He broke the silence by saying
abruptly, “I'm very glad she's been identified. I rather suspected she might be someone else.” He paused, then went on, watching her carefully, “Sylvia, I'm aware it's a painful subject, but there's something I must know â about Harry.”
abruptly, “I'm very glad she's been identified. I rather suspected she might be someone else.” He paused, then went on, watching her carefully, “Sylvia, I'm aware it's a painful subject, but there's something I must know â about Harry.”
She looked up quickly. Her catlike eyes glittered and instantly, the chilling suspicion which had begun to form in his mind was confirmed. Tread softly, he told himself. Here be dragons. “You know, don't you?”
“Oblige me by not looking so fierce, Sebastian. I know what?”
What a fool I've been, he thought. Ever to have even imagined that Sylvia wouldn't have known. Harry would have seen no need for secrecy, for not sharing any part of his life, however disreputable, with his twin. Even that secret he had confided to his brother in an unguarded moment â to be frank, when he was drunk â at a time when he, too, had been under pressure from the family to find a wife. “Let's not pretend, Sylvia. Of course you know.”
“I haven't the least idea what you're talking about.” She glanced at the little clock, busily ticking away on the mantelpiece. “Look, I have to go out now, and I still have to change. But it's been lovely seeing you. We don't see enough of each other, you and I.”
“Sylvia. I think you know very well I'm talking about the woman Harry was keeping. Was she by any chance this Rosa Tartaryan?”
“An
Armenian
? I hardly think so.” Her lip curled.
Armenian
? I hardly think so.” Her lip curled.
“Then who was it? I know there was someone â and I know Harry never kept secrets from you, of all people.”
She turned her head from him and faced her own reflection in the looking glass, composed her face, and when she turned back she was smiling again. “Is that so reprehensible? Young men must be allowed to sow their wild oats,
après tout,
or where should we all be?”
après tout,
or where should we all be?”
“Please be serious. Where is she? Who is she? Where does she live?”
She eyed him narrowly for a moment, then shrugged her slim shoulders. Nevertheless, the glance she gave at the clock once more was rather desperate.
He went on. “Has no one thought we might have a responsibility towards this mistress of his? To see that she is being taken care of?”
She still said nothing, and her very silence hit him like a blow between the eyes. “Are you saying he
married
her? Good God. Was that why he resigned his commission in the regiment?” (Before he'd been compelled to do so under the strictly enforced rule that a Blues officer must not in any circumstances marry an âactress'?)
married
her? Good God. Was that why he resigned his commission in the regiment?” (Before he'd been compelled to do so under the strictly enforced rule that a Blues officer must not in any circumstances marry an âactress'?)
“Married?
Married
? My dear, are you not being hopelessly naive?”
Married
? My dear, are you not being hopelessly naive?”
She was very pale, with a spot of high colour on each cheekbone. She drew in a deep breath. After a moment, she spoke. “There is a son,” she said abruptly. “And before you say anything else, there's something else you should know. The boy is â well, to put the best interpretation on it, he is â not quite right in the head. Sebastian,
mon cher,
the boy is an imbecile.”
mon cher,
the boy is an imbecile.”
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