The Mayfair Affair (20 page)

"I always thought James was a decent man," Malcolm said to Suzanne. "But he's tougher than I gave him credit for." He glanced across the day nursery to the hearthrug where Colin and Jessica were playing with Colin's wooden castle. "And he has more intellectual flexibility."

"So you believe him about the reasons for his quarrel with Trenchard?"

"I have no reason not to, at this point. It fits with what we know of Trenchard. Though we have to keep it in mind in light of future evidence." Malcolm leaned back against the chintz cushions of the nursery sofa. "I'm sending Addison to Maidstone."

"Blanca will miss him. But if anyone can find Emily Saunders—" Suzanne smoothed the ears of the stuffed rabbit Jessica had plopped in her lap. "Darling, has it occurred to you—"

"That Emily Saunders could be Laura? We can't but wonder. Given what we've learned so far, it's unlikely Laura Dudley is her real name."

"It's hard to see him leaving her a fortune, based on what she told us."

"Based on what she told us. Do you think she told us the whole truth? Would you, in the circumstances?"

"Of course not. But—"

"You're trained? Laura appears to be as well. By experience, if not formally."

"But we do know Laura was spying for Trenchard. Trenchard doesn't strike me as a person who would leave a fortune to someone who worked for him."

"No," Malcolm agreed. "There is that. But if Laura proves to be Emily, it will give her a clear motive for murder."

"If she knew about the will."

"A lot of ifs. All we can do at present is wait for Addison. I got nowhere searching for Frederick Hampson today. I had it on good authority that Hampson is usually to be found at the United Service Club on Wednesdays, but he didn't put in an appearance. Questioning his friends only proved that none of them have the least idea why he'd have spoken to Trenchard recently, let alone quarreled with him. We'll have to call on the Hampsons this afternoon. But first tell me how you and Cordy did."

Suzanne's fingers tensed on the rabbit's pink ears. She'd been both anticipating and dreading telling Malcolm about the revelations about Mary Trenchard. As she and Cordelia walked back from Trenchard House she'd gone over a dozen different ways to do it, and in the end decided direct was best.

Malcolm listened to Suzanne recount her and Cordelia's interview with Mary with an expression that gave nothing away.

"Poor Mary," he said when she had done. "What an unspeakable dilemma."

"A nightmare. Cordy and I both saw echoes of our own past. But neither of us faced such an appalling choice as Trenchard gave Mary."

"Appalling and yet quite in character." Malcolm watched the children for a moment. Colin was on his stomach, eye level with his sister, saying something to her that made her burst into giggles. "Appalling what people can do to children. I should have seen it," he added after a moment. "Perhaps it was merely that I didn't want to."

"I didn't see it myself until Cordelia repeated that remark about the duchess's appearance. Sometimes the most obvious things are the most difficult to see."

He nodded. Then, after a moment, without change in inflection, "I should talk to David before we call on the Hampsons." He glanced out the window. The branches of the plane trees stirred in a gust of wind. "Odd. I can't remember David lying to me before. Not that I knew of, anyway."

Suzanne saw the full force of his friend's deception break across her husband's face, smashing through the trust built between two boys who had once been each other's only friend in the alien world of Harrow, who had shared things with each other they didn't even share with their romantic partners.

"Darling— It's only natural David would be careful of his sister."

"And he thought I wouldn't?"

"At the cost of the investigation?"

Malcolm fell silent. Those he was closest to could hurt him deepest, which meant David could hurt him almost more than anyone. As close as Suzanne and Malcolm were, his relationship with David was older. She had come to love David herself, but there were layers between him and Malcolm she couldn't begin to fathom. And that she couldn't intrude on, especially now, when her own deceptions hung thick in the air between them.

"He was protecting his sister, darling."

"From me." The flat words somehow reminded her that there was a time when David must have seemed Malcolm's only family.

"From scandal."

"As if I would—" Malcolm's gaze swung to the children. "Don't let Jessica swallow the infantry, Colin." He touched Suzanne's shoulder. A gentle, innocuous touch. A simple gesture between a husband and wife. But she could feel the anger. And the hurt. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Damn it, David, you lied to me." Shoulders braced against the door panels, Malcolm kept his voice low, but the words reverberated through the empty sitting room at Brooks's. They'd joined Brooks's together the year they came down from Oxford, a gesture against their Tory fathers. How often had they met here to draft speeches, or cheer or commiserate over the outcome of a debate.

David didn't flinch from the accusation in Malcolm's eyes. He'd never been one to shy away from a fault. But neither did he show remorse. "I withheld information."

"Which could be vital to the case."

"It doesn't have anything to do—"

"You can't possibly know that." Malcolm pushed away from the door and strode across the room towards his friend. "No one can, until we arrive at the truth of who killed Trenchard. And I can't do that without all the facts at my disposal."

David glanced away.

Malcolm stared at his friend's profile, the ugly truths he hadn't been able to voice to Suzanne roiling in his head. "Or aren't you sure you want me to arrive at the truth?"

David met Malcolm's gaze, but his own eyes were as hard as fortifications. "I think our priorities are different. Mine is to protect Mary. Yours is to learn the truth."

"And you think they come in conflict?"

"I think if they came in conflict we'd do different things."

Twenty-two years. That was how long they'd known each other and relied on each other as on no one else. "I've known Mary since we were children. You know how fond I am of her. My God, don't you think I want to protect her as well?"

David's mouth tightened. "As far as it goes."

"As far as what goes?"

David spun away and took a quick turn about the room. "You want to learn the truth, Malcolm. You've always been driven to get to the bottom of things, long before you went into intelligence. And now you're in my father's world, you're even more inclined to put the truth before the human factor."

Malcolm swallowed, a bitter taste in his mouth. "Your father accuses me of just the opposite."

"But that's Father. He puts just about everything before the human factor."

"But not his family. There you take after him. But David, you have to know I haven't a hope in hell of arriving at the truth if those closest to me aren't honest."

"Damn it, Malcolm, put yourself in my shoes." David spun to face him. "If someone you loved had secrets, would you be so quick to share them with me?"

Malcolm barely controlled a flinch. Ever since he'd recovered from the first shock of the revelation, he'd been haunted by the thought of what David would do if he learned the truth about Suzanne. Suzanne accused Malcolm of being an English gentleman to the core, but to Malcolm's mind it was David who was. He would trust David with his life or the lives of his family, but he went cold at thought of what David would do if he knew the truth about Suzanne. "If the secrets were vital to an investigation—"

"But they wouldn't be. Because I'll never be an investigator. I can't bear to pry into people's secrets."

"A palpable hit."

"Malcolm—"

"Did you confront Trenchard?"

David stared at the gray sky beyond the window. "I wanted to. I wanted to tell him to keep his bloody hands off my sister. I wanted to challenge him to a duel, and you know what I think of dueling."

"I'd have been more inclined to plant him a facer."

David gave a reluctant smile and for a moment they were boys again. "That too. But Simon said we had to think before we did anything."

"You told Simon?"

"I suppose now you're angry at him as well."

"No, I'm relieved you at least confided in him."

David ran a hand through his hair. "Simon said we needed leverage to get Trenchard to accept the child as his. He actually pointed out that if anyone had that leverage it would be Father."

"Did you tell your father?"

"No. Because we both knew there was a chance Father would agree with Trenchard about Mary giving up the baby. We even considered breaking into Trenchard House and going through Trenchard's papers to see if we could uncover something that would give us a hold on him."

"Did—"

"No. We weren't there the night of the murder. Not that I expect you to believe me."

"For God's sake, David."

"You can't be sure, can you?" David's voice was edged with weariness. "That I didn't kill him. You're always saying we can never know what even those closest to us might be capable of, given the right provocation."

The air between them held the weight of what had been said and what was still unvoiced. Whatever the outcome of the investigation, what had passed between them today could not be undone. Their friendship would bear the scars.

The door swung open with a purposeful rush. "Sorry." Harry Davenport drew up short on the threshold. "I was too bent on delivering information."

"It's all right." David turned to the door. "I'll go into the reading room."

"You should stay, Worsley." Harry advanced into the room. "Given that this concerns your sister, I can't imagine there's any way you'll stay out of it."

"You've learned something about Mary?" David took a quick step towards Harry.

"No, about her stepson." Harry advanced into the room and flung himself into the cracked leather of an armchair. Almost, thought Malcolm, as though to put David and him at ease. Harry's sensitivity could be startling to one who didn't know him well. "I just spent a couple of hours playing billiards. Cordy says if it weren't for you pulling me into investigations, I'd never socialize at all. I thought it was a complete waste of time until Robby Tompkins mentioned that he'd seen James Tarrington in Half Moon Street Tuesday night." Harry looked at Malcolm. "You said Tarrington was in the country until Wednesday, didn't you?"

"Yes." Malcolm studied his friend, investigative instincts taking over from the personal. "Is Tompkins sure it was James?"

"He says so," Harry replied. "Claims he got a good look at him under a streetlight. Said he waved, but James didn't seem to see him."

"Did he say what time?" Malcolm asked.

"Claimed it was sometime about one-thirty, because he'd finished a convivial game of whist at the home of some friends. Or rather the home of a friend's mistress, I suspect. Robby kept saying how awful it was to think James's father was killed the same night. Of course he didn't have a clue James had lied to you."

David was frowning. "I can't imagine James—"

"Someone killed Trenchard," Harry said. "I would think suspecting Tarrington is preferable to suspecting your sister."

David drew a harsh breath and released it. "Damn it, Harry. Do you have to sum things up so succinctly?"

"It's a gift. Or a curse. I haven't been able to figure out which."

Malcolm looked between his two friends. In so many ways, they could not be more different. Yet they shared a certain rough honesty.

David shook his head. "I can't think of any of them—"

"No." Harry stretched his booted feet out in front of him. "One can't with people one knows. But, as we saw three years ago, that's no guarantee they aren't involved."

David gave a quick, contained nod. "I should go. I promised Mary and the children I'd be back this afternoon. Davenport. Malcolm."

The door closed behind David with a quiet click that somehow reverberated more than one would have expected.

"Do you want to talk about that?" Harry asked.

"What Tarrington was doing in London?" Malcolm said. "I think we should get his version of events before we speculate. Though apparently he has a mistress in Half Moon Street."

"Interesting. Though, whether or not he was visiting her the night of the murder, this still places him in London."

"Quite."

"But when I asked if you wanted to talk about it, I meant whatever was going on between you and David when I made my precipitous entrance."

"No."

"Fair enough." Harry linked his hands behind his head. "Difficult when one's friends become entangled in an investigation. They have a tiresome habit of seeing one as a friend and not understanding the demands of investigative work. For a long time I got round it by not having any friends. But I've slipped a bit of late."

Malcolm shot a look at him. "You could say I've done the same."

"You pretend you don't have friends, Rannoch, but the truth is you have a legion of them. You care about people too much not to befriend them."

"It's not the first time my friends have been involved in one of my investigations."

"No, but David's rather a special case when it comes to your friends. And deception's anathema to who David is. Perhaps to who you are, as well, save that you're so good at it. The wonder is you haven't come up against each other sooner."

"For someone who claims to dislike humanity, you understand people entirely too well, Davenport."

"Intellectual curiosity, my dear fellow." Harry watched him for a moment. "David will come round. You're too good friends for him not to understand, in the end."

Malcolm pushed himself to his feet. "I think that rather depends on where this investigation leads."

"David asked me if I'd be so quick to share the secrets of someone I loved. I hope to God he didn't know how keen a shot that was."

Suzanne studied her husband. They were walking along Sloane Street, bound for the Hampsons' home. Her hand was tucked tightly through the crook of Malcolm's arm, but he was walking with his gaze fixed straight ahead. "You're afraid of David learning the truth about me?"

"I'm afraid of anyone learning the truth about you." Malcolm's voice was matter-of-fact, but Suzanne could tell he was playing out a dozen possible, frightening futures. He was living with the nightmare that had been an ever-present part of her life throughout their marriage. "But of all our friends, David worries me the most. Harry's accepted that his uncle was an agent, and God knows he knows the compromises of the intelligence game. Cordy understands betrayal in its many forms. Simon's been accused of being a Bonapartist himself—"

"Which he isn't."

"No, he's resolutely Republican. But I'm confident he'd see your side. David—" Malcolm shook his head, gaze on the gathering evening shadows that choked the street ahead.

Suzanne swallowed, aware of the satin ribbons on her bonnet pressing into her skin. She had known from the first she'd done an unforgivable thing to Malcolm, but she was still shaken by the myriad ways that betrayal had affected him. "I've driven a wedge between you."

He dragged his gaze back to her face. "The wedge was already there. If anything, you've exposed the rift."

"But without me it might have gone unnoticed."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps now that we're in Parliament the differences between us would become apparent in any event."

"You love David."

"Oh, yes. But as we both well know, love and trust don't necessarily go hand in hand."

He said it so calmly, which was somehow worse. "When this is over—"

"That's what Harry, the supposed cynical realist, said. But, as I pointed out, that rather depends on where we're all standing when it's over."

"How much do you think Harry sees?"

"Too much, being Harry." Malcolm steered her round a pile of damp leaves. "But not anything close to the truth. At least, I hope to God not."

She nodded. "I've wondered about him sometimes. Even before you knew the truth. And Cordy. Sometimes I almost think she's trying to turn a blind eye. And then there's Simon."

He shot a look at her. "You think Simon knows?"

"No. Not entirely, at least. But I think he does realize I'm not precisely what I seem. Perhaps because he's good at pretending himself. Perhaps because he's a fellow outsider." She blinked and told herself it was the rush of damp air from a passing carriage. So many ways the truth could come out. So many people who could discover it. And these were their friends. Were they completely mad to think they had any hope of a settled existence?

"Number 23," Malcolm said in a brisk voice. He stared at the terrace house in front of them, buff-colored stucco with white moldings and a sparkling fanlight over the door. A more subdued copy of Mayfair elegance. "We'll need our wits about us."