Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

‘He’s a writer, isn’t he?’ He looked from Arthur to Sarah, and back again.

  ‘Yes,’ Arthur agreed.

  ‘Biography, not literary work,’ Sarah added.

  ‘I think you underestimate him,’ Arthur said with a bitter edge to his voice. ‘There’s more art than truth to some of his work.’

  ‘Creative?’ Daniel asked. He chose his word with care.

  ‘Not really,’ Arthur said. ‘You can stick very strictly to the truth, and as long as you omit the right points, tell a completely different story. The best lines are those that are implied. Everything you say is true and proven, and yet it doesn’t add up the way the real truth does.’

  Daniel thought that was correct. There was a lot more wisdom to that than at first appeared. ‘Do you think that is what the police, and the courts, think about the cause of your mother’s death?’ he asked.

  Sarah cut across him, her voice sharp. ‘Arthur doesn’t know! We don’t know, either of us. There wasn’t anybody else here, apart from the family, and of course the staff.’

  ‘It’s all right, Sarah,’ Arthur assured her. ‘He just has to make certain.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘Do you think there is any chance that my father is not guilty, Mr Pitt? You don’t suspect Falthorne, do you? If he was going to do anything against Father, he would have done it ages ago. The first time Father took a horse whip to the groom, when we still had horses.’

  ‘Arthur! Stop it!’ Sarah said sharply. ‘Mr Pitt, that was years ago, and Falthorne would never attack anybody unless it were to protect us.’

  ‘And did he?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘What?’ She looked as if he had struck her.

  ‘No!’ Arthur said fiercely. ‘Of course, he didn’t!’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but how would you know?’ Daniel asked.

  Arthur’s faced flushed, but it was with shame rather than anger.

  Daniel felt appalling for having asked, but the idea was not out of character with the man Daniel had seen in court, and in prison: quick-tempered, arrogant, defensive.

  Arthur struggled for an answer and was left speechless.

  ‘Will you please leave?’ Sarah meant it as an order, but all she could do was plead. ‘Arthur is quite right. He would know if Falthorne had been in a fight with Father. Father is heavier and stronger. Falthorne is sixty, and not used to violence. He looks after Arthur, doing the things . . . a . . . man needs to do to help him. Looks after him with . . .’ she swallowed, ‘a little dignity. Father would have half killed him if he had raised a hand against him. Please go!’

  Daniel felt shaken, ashamed of having ripped the bandage off such wounds. And yet he was not surprised. Perhaps he should even have been prepared for an error like that. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Graves. I’ve met your father. I do not think he is innocent, but it is still my duty to fight for him, in the chance that I am wrong.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. He turned back and looked at them. ‘I love the birds. Who is the artist?’

  ‘I am,’ Arthur replied. ‘In my imagination, I can fly.’

  Chapter Eight

  Towards the end of the afternoon, after a late lunch of sandwiches, Daniel at last looked at the room where Ebony Graves had died. It was a large and gracious room, furnished as a place where she could receive family members and other women she knew well. He knew it as a boudoir. His mother had never had one, but his aunt Emily had, both in her London house and in Ashworth Hall, her country residence.

  Ebony Graves’ boudoir was charming. He stared at the curtained windows looking out onto the side garden with its carefully tended flowering trees and shrubs. There were flowerbeds not far from the window, and early yellow climbing roses in bloom immediately outside.

  There was much yellow inside the room also: pale yellow walls like sunshine, and yellow cushions on the floral chairs, and one on the dark green sofa. It was easy and restful. How could such a violent and terrible thing happen amid such peace?

  He looked at the pictures on the walls, interesting studies of trees and flowers, caught for beauty rather than botanical realism. In some, they were named.

  There was a large bookcase, five series of shelves, fully packed. Some books were lying sideways, on top of the upright ones, where there was room. Mostly he could see novels, memoirs, and histories.

  Lastly, he forced himself to look at the fireplace and the hearth, and the small section of the carpet next to it. It jolted him with the stains, and a mental image of the violence that had left its marks here. Maybe no one had been detailed to remove them? Or maybe the police had insisted that they be left in evidence, and never thought to lift the restriction so that they could be cleansed, now that the case was over. Perhaps no one could bear to. Daniel could easily imagine neither Falthorne nor Mrs Warlaby sending in any of the young maids to perform such a task.

  There was a brown stain of blood on the hearth stone, which otherwise was a warm yellow sandstone, porous, unpolished, very natural-looking. The carpet beside it, to the right as one faced it, was also stained with blood. There was just the one stain, but deep, as if there had been a single wound that had bled profusely.

  Next to the stain was the charring. The soft colours of the carpet were scarred with burns deeply enough to show the canvas in places. In other places, the entire carpet had been destroyed, and the wooden floor beneath was also scarred. The fire had been small, localised, and extremely hot. Created to destroy evidence? Of what? What could she have in her hair or on her face that might ever be evidence?

  Or had it been done simply out of hatred? The wish to destroy the beauty, the character, the very identity of the dead woman?

  That took a very particular kind of hatred.

  Daniel shivered, as if the room had suddenly dropped in temperature. Was there anything here he could learn that would oblige him to stay?

  He forced himself to go into the bedroom next door and look at that. The bed was made up, as if they still thought she might return. It was furnished in the same design as the boudoir, and largely with the same colours, but fewer pictures on the wall. There were photographs here, several of Sarah and Arthur at different ages. Arthur seemed to have been well until about eleven or twelve years old. After that, he was always seated, and he looked like a memory of the child he had been.

  It hurt Daniel to see the damage in him. It must have wounded his mother appallingly, and yet she had kept the earlier photographs there, where she could see them every day.

  There were none of Russell Graves, not even a wedding photograph. Had there ever been any, in the earlier years? And had she destroyed them? Nor were there any of those who might have been her parents, or other members of her family.

  He opened the wardrobe doors and saw clothes fairly tightly packed together, and several drawers of stockings, leather gloves, carefully folded undergarments of silk, or something that looked like it. He felt intrusive looking through them, and yet they told him something about her. She clearly loved clothes, and had had plenty of money to indulge herself. He put out his hand and tentatively stroked a dress. The silk was so soft he saw rather than felt his fingers touch it. The dresses were of several different colours, muted shades, subtle ones, with here and there something bright.

  Reluctantly, he closed the door. Seeing her personal belongings, the clothes she had chosen and worn, somehow had made death seem more immediate. He was aware of her life rather than other people’s descriptions of her. These had been hers.

  He went out of the room and onto the landing, and found Falthorne waiting for him.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?’ he asked.

  Daniel wondered if the man had been waiting there for him all the time he had been in Ebony’s room. Was he watching discreetly, to see that nothing was removed? Or merely guarding the things that had been hers? Daniel wished he had not felt it necessary to search them. Yet the more he knew about how Ebony had lived, the closer he would come to discovering how she had died.

  ‘Yes,’ he a
nswered. ‘If you please, I would like to see Mr Graves’ study.’

  Falthorne hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if he would like that, sir. He is a very private man, especially about his work.’

  ‘He suggested to me that it is his work that may have made him enemies,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘Some person wishing to destroy him, in order to prevent his exposing their very serious behaviour, even crimes. He said they may have made him look guilty of Mrs Graves’ death in order to silence him. I think he would wish us to look into that possibility.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think that is likely,’ Falthorne conceded. ‘I just felt that I should say something. It is my . . . duty . . . to do so.’

  Daniel was surprised how easily he had given in. He would have expected much more resistance, even an argument.

  Perhaps Falthorne wanted him to discover something? All the staff seemed more shaken and grieved by Mrs Graves’ death than by Graves’ conviction for her murder. Maybe they had expected it.

  ‘Sir?’ Falthorne interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Perhaps considering the lateness of the hour, and the volume of papers, you would like to have a little supper first? Mr Arthur does not come downstairs, and Miss Sarah will eat with him. But you are welcome to eat in the servants’ hall if you wish. Or I can bring you something in the dining room? However, it has not been heated recently, and may be a little cold.’

  ‘Do you know what time the last train is to London?’ Daniel only just realised how late it was, because this time of the year the sun did not set until eight, or even nine o’clock.

  ‘No, sir, but we can look it up for you, or make enquiries. However, if you prefer, we can make up the guest room for you.’ There was a mild, polite smile on Falthorne’s face, completely unreadable.

  Daniel hesitated only a moment. ‘Thank you. That would be very kind of you, Mr Falthorne. And will save me a great deal of time. It’s most thoughtful of you, and I will be delighted to have dinner with you, and the rest of the household.’

  ‘Very good, sir. It will be served in half an hour. I’ll show you to Mr Graves’ study, if you will be so good as to follow me, sir.’

  Daniel went down the stairs behind Falthorne and crossed the hallway to the door of the study. It was a larger room than he expected, a cross between a sitting room and a library. There were extensive shelves of books, many of them leather-bound; some were sets of reference books, dictionaries, and a number of biographies of noted people. One section was devoted to his own works, several copies of each.

  There was a large leather inlaid desk and a leather-seated chair to match. There were also three leather armchairs grouped around a handsome Adam fireplace, complete with gleaming brasses.

  Falthorne noticed his glance. ‘Have to keep it clean, sir, as if we thought he was going to come home.’ His face was expressionless.

  Daniel wondered what it would have shown had he allowed himself that freedom. His studied good manners masked everything, except the effort it cost him. Falthorne had been faultless all the time Daniel had been here. No emotion had betrayed itself but the natural gravity to be expected from a butler in a house of mourning – and scandal.

  ‘You are admirable, Mr Falthorne,’ Daniel said, looking directly at him. ‘The family and the staff are very fortunate to have you to guide them at such a time.’

  That broke Falthorne’s composure. He blushed a deep pink. ‘Thank you, sir. I will do my best. It has been . . . a very difficult time for us all.’ He gave a slight bow.

  Daniel smiled at him.

  Falthorne avoided his eyes and gave the smallest of nods. ‘In half an hour, sir, I shall send the bootboy to fetch you for supper. If you will excuse me, sir? If you need to look in the desk the keys are behind the clock on the mantelpiece’

  ‘Of course. And thank you.’

  As soon as Falthorne was gone, Daniel took the keys and opened the desk drawers one by one.

  In a large central drawer, Daniel found a working manuscript. As Graves had said, he was clearly well advanced in research, and a preliminary draft of his new work. A Modern Machiavelli was the provisional title. It piqued the interest, if nothing else. The name of the Florentine Renaissance master political scientist had passed into the language. His work The Prince was legendary for its advocating intrigue, deception and ruthlessness. Daniel wondered who Graves was referring to. He did not know of anyone with that refinement of deviousness.

  He began with the notes written in a bold, sprawling hand. A lot of dates were mentioned, along with initials. The letter N occurred many times. It appeared to be the record of someone who had had several changes of career: a brief spell in the Indian Army, then university to study law, and a period practising before being seconded into the civil service, in some position not specifically named.

  What was clear was that Graves did not like him. There was to be the exposure of a ghost-like figure who manipulated others from the shadows offstage, rather than a man who showed himself, and took the praise or the blame openly.

  The more Daniel read, the less he liked the man who was the subject of these notes. Graves clearly took pleasure in the thought of unmasking him.

  Could he be to blame for Graves’ present situation? If the man were the master manipulator Graves believed him to be, it would not be beyond his power, or his morality.

  Could Graves, dislikeable as he was, actually be innocent of the murder of his wife?

  Why the burning of her face and upper body? To make sure her death was regarded as a murder, and not some sort of an accident? Daniel actually felt a twinge of pity for Graves.

  And then the moment after, he wondered why Graves had not mentioned his current biographical work to Kitteridge before his trial. Could he have been so arrogant, so stupid, as not to see the relevance? It would have created at least a reasonable doubt, in the hands of a good lawyer. And Kitteridge was good.

  Who was the Machiavelli that Graves was writing about? Could Graves be afraid of him? Or afraid of someone that ‘Machiavelli’ had power over?

  There was a knock on the study door. ‘Come in,’ Daniel called.

  It was the bootboy, Joe, to say that dinner was served, if he’d be pleased to come.

  ‘Thank you,’ Daniel said sincerely. ‘I’d be delighted.’

  Dinner was a delicious meal, and Daniel had not realised until he smelled the fragrant steam rising from the table how hungry he was. He had never dined in a servants’ hall before. He imagined that most people who were not themselves servants had not done so. No one ate with their own servants.

  But Daniel was not master here. He was their guest, and possibly considered something closer to their level than a man who might have servants himself. Daniel had a landlady who looked after him very well, but his father, although knighted by the Queen, never forgot that his father had been a servant, albeit a gamekeeper, not an indoor servant.

  He watched the exchanges across the table with interest. Falthorne was very obviously the head of the family – and ‘family’ was not too intense a word for their relationship. He would have been the senior servant, even before Graves’ arrest, but now he had the extra responsibility of being the only adult man in the house. Daniel saw that he was handling it with grace.

  Everyone deferred to him, except perhaps Ebony’s lady’s maid, Miss Purbright. She had the relationship with the rest of the servants that a visiting maiden aunt might have had. She was treated with respect but never completely included.

  The housekeeper, Mrs Warlaby, contested with the cook, Mrs Hanslope, for supremacy. The kitchen maid, Bessie, was about sixteen, and answered to the cook. The housemaid, Maisie, was eighteen and made a point of the fact that she answered to Mrs Warlaby.

  The bootboy, Joe, aspired to being a footman when he was older and he answered to the butler or the housekeeper, whoever got to him first.

  It did not take Daniel long to realise that Joe played one off against the other, with considerable advantage
, as an inborn skill.

  Strict discipline was kept at the table. Falthorne said grace before the meal. No one fidgeted, and certainly no one tasted the food before he had finished.

  ‘You may begin,’ he gave permission.

  Everyone reached for knife and fork, Daniel included.

  Joe was clearly too hungry to think of anything else. But the kitchen maid, Bessie, stared at Daniel quite openly until Mrs Hanslope told her not to. Bessie murmured something that sounded like an apology, flushed scarlet, and bent her attention back to her plate.

  The meal was beef and kidney pudding with a suet crust, with cabbage and early green beans. Everyone else was served, but Daniel was permitted to serve himself, which he accepted with thanks. He took one mouthful and complimented Mrs Hanslope sincerely. She accepted it graciously, but as her due.

  Daniel began to feel surprisingly comfortable, as gradually they forgot his purpose and began to behave as if he were one of them. They teased each other, especially the younger ones. They gossiped about trivia, people they knew, servants in other nearby large houses.

  They finished the main course. Joe, the bootboy, was permitted to eat the remainder of the pudding after Daniel had declined a second helping with thanks. Daniel was served apple pie freshly from the oven, probably with apples stored over the winter. The crust was crisp and it was accompanied by hot custard.

  This time, Daniel did not compliment Mrs Hanslope; he merely took a mouthful and smiled at her, an expression of pure delight. She was more than satisfied. There was a flush of pleasure on her cheeks.

  As they all relaxed a little more, Joe began to tease the maids, and the banter was quick, and forgetful of the underlying tension. The cook looked on benevolently and even Mrs Warlaby smiled.

  Daniel realised how much all of them were alone, and far from their families, if they had any. This was their family now. This was where they lived and worked, their safety, belonging, and purpose. They were deliberately avoiding saying what they all feared: that soon it would come to an end. They would have to find new positions in places as yet unknown. But more than that, they would inevitably be separated. And, once again, be alone.