by Anne Perry
“And you were the first one out after the … the tragedy,” Eppy noted. “I expect Cecil was trying to revive her, when you found them.”
“Actually …,” Claudine began then suddenly changed her mind. “They were all crowded near her when I got there. Poor Cecil, what a distress for him it must’ve been when she did not stir.”
“Terrible,” Eppy agreed. “I don’t know how you think he could forget it in a few days, or even weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudine lied. “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Well, that testimony should be plain enough for there to be no defense for Tregarron.”
“None at all,” Eppy agreed.
“I imagine Creighton and Ernest Halversgate will say the same. They’d all be there to support one another … over the distress of it all, I mean.”
“I imagine so,” Eppy agreed. “And wouldn’t you have to testify if that awful man is arrested? I mean, mightn’t you have to?”
“Yes,” Claudine said very soberly, “I would have to.” She gulped air, and it caught in her throat, almost choking her. What Eppy had described was not at all what she had seen. But if all three of the boys swore to the same circumstance, would her word be enough against theirs? She doubted it. “Of course,” she added when she had regained her composure.
The day after that she decided to pursue another tack. She did not know Alphonsine Gifford well. However, on the occasions when they had met she had found her a very pleasant young woman and of an independent mind, which showed a degree of courage as well as intelligence. She decided to visit her and congratulate her on her prospective engagement to Ernest Halversgate.
They were sitting in the withdrawing room. It was the appropriate place to receive calls, traditionally known as “morning calls,” although the visits actually took place in the afternoon. The fire was roaring up the chimney, in spite of the still unusually clement weather. The mantel was decked with garlands, as were many of the doors and archways. It all looked most welcoming. It took an effort of will to recall that only just over a week ago a tragedy had taken place in this house.
Alphonsine was dressed in an afternoon gown of rich burgundy, which was startlingly attractive against her warm coloring. Claudine would have expected the shade to be overpowering, but on the contrary, it seemed perfectly natural on Alphonsine.
“Thank you,” the young woman said demurely when Claudine offered her congratulations. “I’m sure I shall be very happy.” She looked down at her hands, avoiding Claudine’s eyes.
With a jolt of memory Claudine thought of herself thirty years ago, sitting just like that, receiving someone’s well-meant congratulations on becoming engaged to Wallace. What her visitor had implied was that a girl as plain as Claudine was lucky to receive an offer of marriage from a man as decent and promising as Wallace. Someone safe, comfortable, and assured of respectability. And in truth, it was much more than some women could look forward to. Heaven knew, she had ministered to hundreds who would have given everything they possessed to change places with her. A roof over their heads, warmth, food, and nice clothes were dreams that barely flickered in their imaginations.
Poor Winnie Briggs had been one of them.
That thought jerked Claudine back to her reason for being here, which had nothing to do with the fresh hot tea, cakes and tiny pies of pastry, and rich fruit that were before her on the table.
“I hope you will be,” she said. “Of course, much of happiness is what we make of it. But I believe you are a woman of courage. You will embrace life. You will not expect it always to be gentle with you, or even fair.”
Alphonsine’s head came up sharply, and she met Claudine’s eyes. “What … what do you mean? And don’t tell me you don’t mean anything. I know you better than that, Mrs. Burroughs. You are not one of the usual society women who goes from party to party, giving a little charity here and there and saying all sorts of things they don’t mean. You work at the clinic in Portpool Lane, don’t you?”
Claudine was surprised. “Yes. It means a great deal to me. Why do you ask?”
“Do you have women there like the one who died here the other evening?”
“Yes. Many exactly like her. We do manage to save most of them, and at least to give a little comfort to those we can’t save. But if you’re worried about Mr. Halversgate’s part in all this, there’s no need to be—I’m sure he did all he could to save her.”
Alphonsine’s eyes lowered again. “Of course. It was … dreadful.” Suddenly she looked intently at Claudine. “Will he have to testify in court, if they find Mr. Tregarron? Do you think they will? If … if they find him guilty, they’ll hang him, won’t they?”
In spite of the fire and the hot tea, Claudine was chilled. She remembered Lambert Foxley’s words about assuring that the young men would not have to appear in court and therefore would avoid being cross-questioned by a lawyer for the defense. Was it because he wanted to spare them the ordeal of a trial, or because he wanted to ensure they would not be caught in a lie? Apparently, Alphonsine did not question the story Ernest and his friends had offered. Claudine doubted the young woman would be able to sit calmly on a sofa if she thought her soon-to-be fiancé was guilty of such a crime and that it was possible an innocent man could be hanged for something he did not do.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “They will hang him, if they believe he deliberately beat her. But Mr. Halversgate was there. He must know what happened, and he will be able to testify to it.”
Alphonsine stared at her. “Yes …” She swallowed. “He will. But of course he was not the only one who was there. Cecil Crostwick and Creighton Foxley were as well. Perhaps one of them testifying will be enough … do you think?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t think so at all.” Claudine had no compunction in being blunt with her. “If you were the person defending Mr. Tregarron, wouldn’t you wish to question them all, to make sure their accounts were exactly the same?”
“I suppose I would.” Alphonsine gave a very slight smile. “Don’t you think they will make sure that it is? If Mr. Tregarron is caught, of course?”
Claudine thought for a moment before she answered. “But, of course, they would have been standing in different places and therefore seen things slightly differently. So their accounts might be a bit varied.”
Alphonsine was very pale, even in the gaslight. “I … yes, of course they would. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“It would probably be best if they each described exactly what they saw. One would wish to be as natural sounding as possible, should it come to anything, which of course it may not.”
A succession of emotions crossed Alphonsine’s face: relief, disappointment, then misery. “Yes, you are quite right,” she agreed. “Perhaps he will never be caught, and they won’t have to say anything at all.”
In the hansom cab on her way home, Claudine considered all the bits of information she had gathered. Only one struck her as very slightly incongruous now, after talking to Alphonsine—the fact that the girl was having her friends tell what amounted to lies, even if very conventional ones, so that she might spend more time with Ernest Halversgate. The girl didn’t seem particularly besotted, though happy enough. It appeared to be a relationship of convenience … So, surely the ordinary social arrangements were more than sufficient? It was a small thing, but it nagged at her. She decided then that she had no choice but to call again on Arthur Davidson.
She hated doing it. She was actually trembling as she stood at the front door and reached for the brass-headed bell pull, but she could not afford to wait any longer. If Arthur Davidson preferred not to answer her request, then better that she know it now. She was aware that by returning to press him for more information, she might also make him less likely to contribute to the clinic in the future. That would be a heavy blow. He had been generous.
The footman opened the door and recognized her immediately. A few minutes later she was in the withdrawing room in front of the fire,
Davidson standing to receive her. She had always seen him in his study before, or at the clinic. However, there was no time to appreciate the glass-paned bookcase or the slightly mismatched furniture, evidence that he cared for comfort rather than for appearances. She wondered what his wife was like. He had never spoken of her.
Claudine forced herself to address the subject immediately.
“I apologize, but I must ask you if you have learned anything about the three young men we recently spoke about.” She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “I am afraid the matter grows urgent.”
His mouth pulled a little tighter, and there was a sadness in his eyes. “I have. None of it particularly surprising. Halversgate is, as you implied, a follower rather than a leader. Crostwick and Foxley are another matter. In better society, they are merely a trifle daring. More privately, they indulge in excess of drink in very dubious places, which increasingly often descends to violence. I wish I could tell you otherwise.” A faint humor touched his mouth. “I would advise your friend, if she exists, to counsel her son most strongly not to associate with them. They may never be caught doing anything wrong, but they are a malign influence.”
Claudine felt the color burn up her face. She was clearly far more transparent than she had intended.
“Thank you,” she said awkwardly. She could not tell him the real reason for her inquiries, but she made no more pretense at excuses. She was too embarrassed to accept any hospitality, even though she would have enjoyed conversing with him on other matters. After wishing him a happy Christmas, she excused herself and left.
The next morning Claudine told Squeaky Robinson what she had learned. They were in his office with the door closed. The rest of the clinic was busy preparing for Christmas—trying to bring as much cheer as possible to those who had nowhere else to go, or whose sickness and injuries made them unable to care for themselves.
Squeaky was impressed with her account, although he did his best not to show it.
“Good,” he said a trifle sententiously. “It’s a start. So Halversgate’s a follower.”
“Apparently. This is information, but I’m afraid it is not proof,” she warned.
Squeaky pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “I know that! But don’t underestimate it. It’ll give you a lever to use with him.”
“Me?” She was startled. “How?”
He squinted at her. “He doesn’t know you don’t have proof. We can’t neither of us find anything much about Winnie Briggs, poor little cow. Nothing different from thousands of others, just unlucky. An’ so far I still haven’t found any sign of Tregarron, just a lot of stories, most of ’em lies, far as I can tell. But it only needs one nasty bastard rubbed the wrong way, an’ someone’ll nab him. So you’d better get about it, seeing as I can’t hardly go, and put a flea in Mr. Halversgate’s tail. You’ll think of something.”
Claudine did not find this task easy. She hated not so much actually telling a lie, but rather implying one and allowing it to be understood. Ordinary tact in talking about things that did not matter greatly was a social skill everyone was expected to possess. But deception came hard to her. Social exchange was a web of small flatteries and of compromises that entangled them all. It was one of the reasons she found it difficult.
Nevertheless, she needed to speak honestly with Ernest Halversgate.
While ostensibly calling on Tolly Halversgate, she actually met with Ernest in the large garden room overlooking their paved terrace and the rather fine balustrade, which gave the illusion that the lawn was bigger than it actually was. It was a clever piece of design, and she admired it.
“Thank you,” Ernest said a little stiffly. “My grandfather had it put in. It was rather dull before. I’m so sorry Mama is not here, Mrs. Burroughs. I don’t expect her for another half hour or so.” He was a very correct young man and at the moment clearly embarrassed.
Claudine smiled at him. “I’m sure it is my fault. I must have written down the wrong time. Or else I have it confused with another date. If I improved my handwriting, instead of scribbling when I am in a hurry, I would save myself from inconveniencing other people. It’s I who must apologize.”
“Not at all,” he said a trifle automatically.
“You’re very kind.” She looked through the windows at the lawn and the carefully planned curved walk, which appeared to lead to spaces beyond but in reality probably doubled back on itself. “It does not look too windy out there, and it certainly is not raining. Would you be gracious enough to show me around the garden? I think it has a remarkable art to it, which I find most pleasing.”
He could hardly refuse. “Of course,” he said reluctantly. His body was tense and his hands oddly stiff as he walked over to the door and opened it for her.
As they crossed the terrace and went down the steps, she began the conversation for which she had come.
“I recently had a most delightful visit with Alphonsine Gifford, and she told me of your forthcoming engagement. May I congratulate you? She is in every way a charming young woman.”
“Thank you.” The shadow of a smile softened his face, but he did not turn his head or meet her eyes.
“It will be good to have someone to stand by you and be of support should this wretched business of Tregarron come to trial,” she went on. “It cannot be pleasant to have to testify to such a distressing incident.”
He stopped on the edge of the grass. “I don’t think I shall have to do that. Surely the evidence is perfectly plain? I … I didn’t really do anything.”
“All the more reason why you should testify, if he is found,” she said gently. “You will have had a clearer view and, I daresay, a clearer head. You seemed to me to be a little more … sober … than the others.”
He gasped, and she realized that perhaps he had forgotten for a moment that she had been there, moments after the incident, when Tregarron was still attempting to revive Winnie and the other three young men were standing close by.
She waited for him to continue. The silence was heavy and awkward.
He started to speak and then changed his mind.
She was acutely aware of his difficulty, but she could not afford to break the silence or change the subject, as she would have at any other time.
“It was all … ridiculous and unpleasant,” he said at last. “Tregarron should never have been invited. He’s a complete outsider … appalling man. Creighton can’t possibly have known how he would behave, or he wouldn’t have had anything to do with him.”
“Creighton Foxley invited him?” She affected surprise. She really only wanted to get a response from him.
“Well … I …” He trailed off unhappily.
“You are very loyal.” The remark was not complimentary. Her voice held a shadow of the contempt she felt for his seeming emotional indifference to the tragedy of a young woman’s death and the fact that neither he nor his friends had done anything effective to prevent it.
Ernest blushed hotly. “Yes, I am, Mrs. Burroughs. I have no intention of discussing the matter unless I am forced to. But of course I will testify against Tregarron, if they call me. I’m angry that the man was allowed onto the premises, especially into Miss Gifford’s home. But when we are married I shall make certain that such a thing doesn’t happen again.”
“Of course,” Claudine agreed, her heart sinking as she pictured a long and fiercely protected life stretching ahead for Alphonsine. Was it what she wanted? Or what she believed it wise to settle for? Perhaps there were sides to Ernest Halversgate that Claudine had failed to see. “I’m sure you will find it distasteful to stand in court and tell the public exactly what happened,” she said more soothingly than she felt. “Any of us would. But you are, above all, a man of honor, so that is what you will do. I am so sorry any of this happened.”
He managed a bleak smile then moved forward and pointed out a particularly fine holly bush that was brilliant with berries.
“Superb,” she murmured politely but quite hones
tly. “Holly is such good value, I think. It provides color, shape, and interest in a garden when there is so little else at this time of year.”
They made meaningless conversation around the rest of the garden, which was not nearly as large as clever optical illusion had suggested.
At last they reached the door to the withdrawing room again. Tolly Halversgate was standing just inside, controlling her expression of annoyance with some difficulty.
“I’m so sorry,” she said coolly. “I thought I had made my arrangement clear, but apparently I was remiss. I hope Ernest kept you entertained.” There was no lift in her voice to make it a question. She was expressing criticism, not concern. She glanced at her son with anxiety. He met her eyes then looked away.
“He was charming,” Claudine said with warmth. “What a perfectly delightful garden you have. In this mild weather he was kind enough to show me some of its very best aspects. It seems his grandfather had a gift for design that I very much admire.”
Tolly’s eyebrows rose in something that looked like disbelief. “I had no idea you were interested in garden design.”
“Surely anything that creates beauty is interesting?” Claudine countered.
“Tea?” Tolly asked. Then before Claudine could reply, she turned to her son. “Thank you, Ernest. Please feel now that you may leave to continue with your own business. I’m sure Mrs. Burroughs will excuse you, and I am most obliged for your courtesy.”
“Thank you for your company, and your conversation, Mr. Halversgate,” Claudine said courteously.
“My pleasure.” He bowed in a stiff and rather old-fashioned manner for such a young man. Then, without adding anything further, he left the room.
“What an agreeable and sensitive person he is,” Claudine said approvingly as she sat down in the chair by the fire, opposite the one nearest Tolly. “So much more mature than others I meet who are his age.”
Tolly stared at her.
Claudine continued to smile, feeling as if she were baring her teeth. “Miss Gifford must be very happy, and quite confident in her future.”