His at Night (30 page)

“We’ll be fine. We are not afraid of him.”

Though she wished her husband would be a little
more afraid. It was dangerous to underestimate her uncle.

“When you have dressed, I will take you to a dressmaker’s. We will go in the front and come out the back, take a hack, and then head for the Langham Hotel. I will bring your things by later; first we secure your person. Do you follow me?”

Aunt Rachel nodded hard.

“Good, now—”

There was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” said Elissande.

“Your ladyship, Mrs. Douglas,” said the footman, holding a silver salver before him. “Mrs. Douglas, there is a gentleman by the name of Nevinson calling for you. He asked me to deliver this note to you in person. And he wishes to know whether you are at home to him, mum.”

Aunt Rachel, already too frozen to speak, looked to Elissande.

Elissande took the note and broke the wax seal on the envelope.

Elissande clenched her fist. Was it her uncle, sending the law after her aunt?

No, he had no cause for it. A man’s wife was at perfect liberty to travel to London for a week.

Then it must be a ruse. The detective was an impostor, a Trojan horse sent to breach the defenses of this house when it could not otherwise be stormed.

“First give this note to his lordship and ask him to read it immediately,” she said to the footman. “Then show Mr. Nevinson to the drawing room and make him welcome. We will receive him presently.”

The footman left to do her bidding. Aunt Rachel gripped Elissande’s arm.

“Are you sure?” Aunt Rachel’s voice shook.

“I
will receive him.
You
will enjoy your breakfast. Lord Vere is here and he is not going to let you be abducted from under his nose.”

Or so she prayed. And locked Aunt Rachel’s door just in case.

“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Vere,” said Nevinson.

He was dressed in a smart lounge suit of blue worsted, a man of early middle age, with sharp eyes and efficient movements—very much the competent and trustworthy officer of the law and precisely the sort of quality confidence artist she would have hired had she wanted her aunt stolen.

She pasted on her usual smile. “What may I do for you, Detective?”

“Will Mrs. Douglas be joining us, ma’am, if I may ask?”

“Mrs. Douglas is not at home. But I will be happy to relate your message to her.”

Nevinson hesitated. “Forgive me, ma’am. What I am about to say is of an extraordinarily sensitive nature. Is it at all possible that I may speak to Mrs. Douglas face-to-face?”

“Alas,” said Elissande, still smiling, “I’m afraid it is not possible.”

The man regarded Elissande. “And why is that so, Lady Vere?”

Elissande cleared her throat and exaggeratedly looked about the empty drawing room. Then she said in a stage whisper, “You see, sir, for some time every month, she suffers. Oh, how she suffers. You could even say she is in the veriest of agony.”

Nevinson obviously had not expected this particular answer. He flushed a deep red and struggled to regain his composure.

“In that case, I’d be grateful if you would pass on the message to Mrs. Douglas.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but Mr. Douglas has been arrested this morning on suspicion of murder.”

Elissande blinked. “Is this a joke, Detective?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It is not. We have sufficient evidence to believe that he is responsible for the murder of one Stephen Delaney, a scientist whose unpublished method of diamond synthesis he stole.”

Why would her uncle kill a man for a method of
diamond synthesis when he already had access to vast quantities of natural diamonds? The accusation was too ridiculous for words. This had to be a ploy. How long could she keep Nevinson in the drawing room? Could she get a message to her husband that he was to whisk her aunt away this moment?

She was breaking out in a cold sweat. She must not go into a panic. She needed to think clearly and effectively.

What was that? Someone was singing outside the drawing room—a familiar song.

“‘I’ve got a little cat. And I’m very fond of that. But I’d rather have a bow-wow. Wow, wow, wow, wow.’”

She had to conceal a smile as her husband opened the door and stuck his head inside. “Good morning, my dear. How lovely you are, as always,” he warbled.

Thank God! She’d never been so happy to see anyone.

Lord Vere, sloppily dressed, his hair still sleep-mussed, turned toward Elissande’s caller. “And is that you, Detective Netherby?” he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.

“Nevinson, my lord.”

Had she caught a grimace on Nevinson’s face?

“I knew it!” exclaimed Lord Vere, strolling into the room. “I never forget a face or a name. You were the lead detective on the Huntleigh case.”

“The Haysleigh case.”

“That’s what I said. When Lady Haysleigh was discovered to have faked her own death in order to
escape a prior marriage and marry Lord Haysleigh—and then she attempted to murder her first husband when he arrived at the Haysleigh estate.”

“That, sir, would be the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel. Lord Haysleigh’s younger brother, Mr. Hudson, attempted to poison Lady Haysleigh in order to frame Lord Haysleigh for murder so that he himself would come into the title.”

“Really? I always thought
that
was the plot of a Mrs. Braddon novel.” Lord Vere sat down and accepted a cup of tea from Elissande. “Thank you, my dear. Now, Detective, I’m under the impression the Haysleigh case was settled several years ago.”

“It was, sir.”

“That’s a bit odd to see you here then. I didn’t know we were on calling terms.”

Nevinson clenched his teeth. “Never fear, my lord. I’m here strictly on business.”

“Ah, and what business would that be? I assure you, I have been nowhere near any suspicious activities.”

“I’m sure you haven’t, sir. I’m here to see Mrs. Douglas about her husband.”

Elissande had been so entertained watching her husband toy with Nevinson that only upon the reference to her uncle did she suddenly understand the significance of what had transpired before her.

Nevinson was not an impostor. He was a real detective, here on official business.

And he was not lying to her.

As if to underscore that realization, Detective
Nevinson repeated to Lord Vere, almost word for word, what he had told Elissande.

Her uncle, a murderer.

Her head exploded piece by tiny piece. It was not a terrible sensation: bizarre and disconcerting, but not terrible. There would be an awful scandal, there was no avoiding that. But what a tremendous silver lining. Her uncle had been arrested: He was in no position to compel Aunt Rachel to return to him now.

Moreover, once he was tried and convicted, he would rot in jail for a long, long time. Perhaps he would even
hang
. And Elissande and Aunt Rachel would be free, completely, gloriously free.

She barely heard her husband when he said, “But of course you and your men are welcome to search the manor from top to bottom. Is that all right with you, my dear?”

“Beg pardon?”

“That is the express purpose of Detective Nevinson’s visit. It is a courtesy on his part, as by now I believe he needs no permission from us to search Highgate Court.”

“Well, yes, of course. We shall cooperate fully.”

Nevinson thanked them and rose to leave.

She had to restrain herself from screaming in elation as she bade Nevinson good day. As soon as he left, she leaped high in the air, wrapped her husband in a hard embrace, then ran upstairs, tears streaming down her face, to inform her aunt of the news of their deliverance.

Stephen Delaney’s main area of scientific interest had indeed been the artificial synthesis of diamonds, as amply demonstrated by the box of documents Lord Yardley had sent to Holbrook—apparently the file Vere had read had been a mere extract.

While Vere had slept off the rum, Holbrook had cracked the code used in Douglas’s dossier. Last night, using Holbrook’s guide, Vere had deciphered pages in the dossier, the text of which was identical to that in Delaney’s spare laboratory notebook. (Apparently, Delaney had a system whereby he took his own notes in his primary notebook; then his assistant copied the notes and stored the duplicate notebook away from the laboratory for safekeeping.) So even though Douglas had stolen and, in all probability, subsequently destroyed Delaney’s primary notebook, the existence of the duplicate still clearly and powerfully connected Douglas’s dossier and Delaney’s research.

And even better: a note written in the margins of a page in Douglas’s dossier, which when deciphered read,
Should not have done away with the bastard before I could reproduce his results
.

Enough to arrest and charge Douglas. And enough, along with the ongoing investigation into his other crimes and strong pressure from Yardley—in response to Vere’s request—to hold Douglas without bail.

Vere was suddenly tired. It always came, this
bone-deep weariness at the end of a case. But it seemed even more draining this time. Perhaps because above him his wife was literally jumping for joy, the impact of her landings reverberating through the ceiling.

Her purposes for this marriage had been served: She was safe and she was free, as was her aunt. He would let some more time elapse—for Douglas to be tried and convicted—and then he would demand an annulment.

It was still possible, or so he liked to think, to repair the damages she had wrought. When he’d had time and distance enough from her, her face and her smile would cease to intrude into his fantasies of tranquillity and peacefulness. Then, when he wanted simple companionship, he would have simple companionship, and all the easy comfort that came with it.

The emotions Lady Vere invoked were too dark, too sharp, too unnerving. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want the frustration, the lust, or the dangerous longings she incited. He wanted only for things to go back as they were, before their paths collided: an inner life that was soothing, consoling, placating, thickly buffered from the realities of his life.

Rather like Mrs. Douglas with her laudanum.

He poured himself two fingers of whiskey and downed it in a single gulp.

Upstairs she jumped again. No doubt she was laughing and crying at the same time, weightless with
happiness and relief, her nightmare at last coming to an end.

His nightmares would just have to go on.

“Allow me to read you a passage from my diary, dated twelve April 1884,” said Angelica. She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘On the bank of the trout stream, I read and Freddie drew. Penny struck up a conversation with the vicar, who was out on a walk—something about the Gnostics and the Council of Nicaea.’”

She looked up. “My goodness, remember how learned Penny used to be?”

“I remember,” said Freddie.

But he never remembered it without an echo of sadness.