A Corpse in Shining Armour (26 page)

‘It must have occurred to you to leave things as they are,’ I said.

She frowned, as if she didn’t understand. I pressed on.

‘Surely Miles is well enough provided for, and he’s a young man who will make his own way in the world. Is it so important
to you that he should have the title?’

‘It’s not a question of what’s important for me. It’s a matter of justice and honour.’

‘Your own honour or the world’s idea of honour?’

‘You’re clever, aren’t you?’ she said, and it didn’t sound much like a compliment. ‘I suppose you’ve been talking to Robert.’

I was about to deny it, until I remembered that I had talked to him about her, or rather he’d talked to me. I could hardly
tell her that he’d appealed to me to make the world believe she was mad, for her own protection.

‘I’m not speaking for him, I’m speaking for myself,’ I said.

‘But you have talked about me, haven’t you? What did he tell you?’

‘Very little, except he was concerned for you.’

The hostility that had flared up in her seemed to be draining away. She looked relieved.

‘He worries about me too much.’

We finished the bottle of Muscadet. Although she’d barely eaten, she’d matched me glass for glass. She stood up, gathered
our used plates and glasses, and stacked them on the trolley. I helped her push it out to the landing. The room was quite
dark by now because of the clouds blotting out the evening sun, but she made no move to light lamps or candles. After a while
she went through to her bedroom and came back with a dark green bottle and a small glass.

‘I shan’t sleep without it.’

She poured carefully until the glass was half full, squinted at it, then poured again until it was three-quarters full and
tossed it back defiantly. She put glass and bottle on a table then lay back on the chaise longue. Her eyes closed, but her
body still quivered at every rumble of thunder and when the first lightning forked across the sky her eyes jerked open with
a scared and lost look, as if she didn’t know where she was. She made a small sound, like a newborn puppy. I went over to
her.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You should be in bed.’

I got her to stand up and walked her through to the bedroom. Her nightdress was laid out ready on the white coverlet.

‘Don’t leave me.’

So I stood looking out of her window while she got ready for bed. As I was standing there, another flash of lightning seemed
to rip the clouds apart and the rain started with the suddenness of slops being flung out of a bucket. It settled to a downpour,
hissing down on the lawn and the gravel drive, and the smell of damp warm grass filled the room. The sash window had been
open top and bottom and the rain was coming in. I pulled it down so that only a foot or so at the top was open and started
drawing the curtains.

‘No, leave them open.’

She was in her nightdress with her hair down, her voice slurred.

‘But the lightning…’ I said.

‘Things can come in behind the curtains.’

The laudanum was obviously taking effect, but there was no arguing with her. I left the curtains as they were, held back the
coverlet while she got into bed and smoothed it round her. Lovelace curled up at the foot of the bed. Her hand came out from
under the covers and took tight hold of mine. I kneeled on the rug beside her and stayed until her breathing became slow and
regular and the grip on my hand slackened, then carefully drew it away. I stood up and tiptoed out, leaving the door half
open so that I’d hear if she called out.

Although dark, it still wasn’t late. I could hear life going on in the rest of the house, footsteps and muffled voices. The
footsteps sounded louder when somebody came into the library downstairs. Robert Carmichael, probably wondering what was going
on above his head. I didn’t blame him for anything, or not really. Certainly I didn’t blame her. She’d been horribly badly
treated by her husband and had a right to take her happiness where she could. As for him–perhaps he really did love her.
A man might love a woman fifteen or so years older than he was. He’d defended her and was concerned about her. So, the nagging
disappointment in my mind was unfair to him and quite unreasonable.

I stood at the window and concentrated on the storm. Six seconds between the lightning and the thunder, so the heart of it
was six miles away. Five seconds, coming closer. I liked storms. She’d liked storms too, until a certain night in her Italian
tower. I thought of the journal.
Now and then, distant lightning illuminates the under-sides of the clouds on the far side of the lake with a sullen kind of
glow.
Then, in the morning,
Lord Brinkburn has told me something terrible, terrible.
A sudden use of her husband’s formal title. All I knew now to add to that was that somehow the boy Handy had been involved.
Also, his master’s opinion of him:
That boy was born corrupt, that’s why I like him.
Between one flash of lightning and the next, an idea came into my mind. If I could have woken her up then and asked her,
I’d have done it, but I couldn’t expect sense from her laudanum-numbed brain.

The storm came to its climax with a burst of thunder that seemed to rock the chimney pots. I was sure it would wake Sophia,
but in the quiet that followed it there was no sound from next door. The lightning was no more than an occasional throb on
the horizon, the thunder a low rumble. I changed into my nightdress and climbed into bed. The scent and coolness of starched
linen sheets were so soothing that my mind stopped racing and I let myself drift into a half sleep, gentle as the rocking
of a boat on the water. The image of Robert Carmichael’s extended arms and bent neck tried to intrude into my boat, but I
blocked it out. The half sleep became a full sleep, until it was shattered by a scream from the next room.

I jumped up and ran through to the bedroom. Sophia was standing at the window in her nightdress. The flat light between darkness
and day and the rigidity of her body made her look like a stiff, archaic statue. There’d been only that one scream. Now she
was staring silently at the lawn between the house and the river. I stood beside her, following the direction of her eyes.
There was nothing there, not so much as a rabbit.

‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘He disappeared into the bushes when he knew I’d seen him. I think he’s been there, watching my window,
all the time I was asleep.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I could feel it. I had a dream of things crawling over my skin. I was so scared in my dream that I made myself wake up, and
I looked out and there he was, standing on the lawn.’

Laudanum talking, beyond a doubt. I thought it best to try and calm her.

‘The light’s odd at this time of the morning.’

‘I’m not seeing things. He was there.’

‘Then it might have been anybody–a gardener, up early,’ I said.

I glanced at the gilt travelling clock beside her bed. Twenty past four; too early even for the most conscientious gardener.
‘Or a poacher, perhaps.’

But would any poacher have crossed the lawn so openly?

‘It wasn’t either of those. He was wearing a long black coat and a low-crowned hat.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘It was too far away, and I didn’t want to see his face.’

She shivered. I put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Go back to bed.’

I decided not to mention Robert Carmichael. If there really had been a person there, wasn’t he the most likely one, keeping
watch on her window from a distance? But then, wouldn’t a woman have recognised the man she loved, even at a distance in dim
light?

She stood for a while as if she hadn’t heard me, then sighed, walked across the room and sat on the edge of her bed. The sheets
and coverlet were twisted like washing from a mangle. I settled on the bedside rug, looking up at her.

‘At least the storm’s gone away.’ I said.

‘It’s worse when the storm’s gone.’

Her voice was remote, as if coming from the back of a cave. I guessed she was remembering that other morning after a storm,
more than twenty years before, and sensed that she wanted to tell me, or at least was near the brink of a decision.

‘What happened, that night by Lake Como?’ I said.

‘I slept,’ she said, still sounding surprised about it after all this time. ‘I didn’t expect to, with the headache and the
storm, but I slept.’

‘In your tower by the lake?’

‘Yes, in my tower.’

She suddenly swung her legs on to the bed, pulled the coverlet over herself from waist down.

‘And then something woke you?’ I said.

We were at the heart of her story now, whether it was true or false. The next event must be the entry of the lover who was
not her husband.

‘No. Nobody woke me. I slept till Suzy came in and drew back the curtains in the morning. There was mist all over the lake,
right up to the windows. It was like being on the inside of an enormous pearl, one of those misshapen ones. Baroque, is that
what they call them?’

She stared at me from those eyes that were nearly all iris, as if she were still looking out at a mist. I answered her as
gently as possible.

‘So nobody came? You slept all night.’

‘Yes. I woke up knowing something dreadful was going to happen. I don’t know how I knew.’

‘And nobody had come to you in the night?’

‘Nobody.’

I settled back on my heels, wondering if she knew the significance of what she was saying. There’d been no daemon lover. My
work was done. The story that had made her sons each other’s enemies and been the talk of society for weeks was no more than
an opium fantasy. I could take the
North Star
back to London in the morning and report to Mr Lomax that I’d heard her deny it. But I knew one thing would stop me:
This morning Lord Brinkburn has told me something terrible, terrible.
Terrible enough to destroy the rest of her life.

‘That morning, your husband came to you and told you something,’ I said. ‘You wrote that much in your journal. What was it?’

She curled up and turned away from me, scrunching her head deep into the pillow as if in pain. I put a hand on the coverlet
over her shoulder, trying to comfort her, but it was like touching stone.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s all right. You don’t have to tell me.’

I was angry with myself, both for hurting her so much and taking a hasty step and making her draw back at the last minute.
For what seemed like a long time I knelt there, murmuring pointless things that were meant to be comforting. At last her shoulder
softened, she gave a shuddering sigh and fell into a deep sleep. By then the sky outside was blue, the birds shouting their
morning chorus. I drew the curtains across to keep out the light and sat in a chair by the window in case she should wake
again and be scared. Two hours or so later, when there was a knock on the outside door, she still hadn’t moved. I went across
the sitting room to answer the knock, pulling the bedroom door closed behind me. Betty was waiting on the landing with a tray
of coffee things.

‘Is Lady Brinkburn still asleep, ma’am?’

‘Yes. What time is it?’

‘Half past seven, ma’am.’

She came into the room and put the tray down on a table.

‘When her ladyship wakes up, would you ring and I’ll bring her fresh.’

I said certainly I would. She hesitated.

‘If you please, ma’am, Mrs Bream would be grateful for a word with you when convenient.’

‘Mrs Bream?’

‘The housekeeper, ma’am.’

‘Please tell her I’ll be downstairs as soon as I’ve had a cup of coffee.’

It was good coffee and I drank two cups at leisure, assuming the housekeeper would have some small domestic business on her
mind and, quite possibly, a grudge against me for the inconvenience of making up an extra bed. Before I went downstairs I
looked in on Sophia, but she still hadn’t moved. I had no worries about leaving her, now that the household was up and about.
When I asked for Mrs Bream I was directed to the linen room, where she was talking to one of the maids. As soon as she saw
me, she sent the girl outside.

‘You wanted to speak to me?’ I said.

Mrs Bream was a comfortable pudding of a woman, with frizzy grey hair under her white cap. She looked as if she’d normally
have been a cheerful body, but this morning she was worried.

‘It’s about your maid, ma’am.’

‘Oh dear, has Tabby done something wrong?’

My conscience was pricked because I hadn’t given her a thought all night. Goodness knows what sins against domestic order
she’d committed. ‘I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm. She’s inexperienced but good-hearted.’

Mrs Bream wiped her hands down her apron.

‘The fact is, ma’am, I’m afraid she’s run away.’

She looked at me from moist round eyes. My first reaction was to comfort her because she could hardly know about Tabby’s wandering
background.

‘Don’t worry, I dare say she woke up early and has gone out for a walk without telling anybody,’ I said. ‘Quite wrong of her,
of course, and I shall speak to her about it when she comes back. Was that all?’

But she was looking even more miserable.

‘I’m sorry to tell you, ma’am, things were said last night that probably shouldn’t have been said, and I think she might have
taken them more seriously than was meant.’

‘What things?’

This was more worrying, and I suppose I must have spoken sharply because she was near tears.

‘I said they shouldn’t pick on her, but you know what girls are like these days, and how were they to know she’d take it like
she did?’

I tried to make myself sound calmer than I felt.

‘Mrs Bream, would you please try to tell me exactly what happened.’

She took a deep breath.

‘It was at servants’ supper. We all sit down when we’ve cleared the dinner things and have a bite or two of what’s left over
before the kitchen staff do the washing up. Nothing we’re not allowed to. Lady Brinkburn knows about it.’