Seven Dials

by Anne Perry

  “There will be two intervals,” he said in little above a whisper as Garrick and the bishop moved away and it was time to take their own seats.

  The opera was a baroque masterpiece full of subtlety and light, but it had not the familiar melodies, the passion and lyricism of the Verdi she loved. She occupied her mind with plans for the first interval. She could not afford to wait until the second, in case some mischance should make visiting Garrick impossible. He might become involved in an encounter she could not decently join. Some degree of subtlety was required. He was no fonder of her than she of him.

  When the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause she was on her feet as if risen spontaneously.

  “I didn’t know you liked it so much,” Theloneus said in surprise. “You didn’t look as if you did.”

  “I don’t,” she replied, disconcerted that he had been watching her and not the stage; in honesty she had nearly forgotten how deep his feeling was for her. “I wish to visit Garrick before he leaves his box,” she explained. “And preferably before someone else dominates any discussion.”

  “If the bishop is there, I shall engage him in persuading me into one of his opinions,” Theloneus offered with a wry smile, his eyes soft with laughter. He was aware of the sacrifice he was making, and that she was also.

  “‘Greater love hath no man,’” she murmured. “I shall be in your debt.”

  “You will,” he agreed fervently.

  And his intervention proved necessary. Vespasia almost collided with the bishop outside Garrick’s box.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said with a freezing smile. “How pleasant to see you able to find an opera whose story does not offend your morals.”

  Since the tale in question was one of incest and murder, the observation was of the utmost sarcasm, and she regretted it the minute it was past her lips, even before she heard Theloneus choke off laughter and turn it into a cough, and saw the bishop’s face turn a dull shade of purple.

  “Good evening, Lady Vespasia,” he replied coldly. “It is Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, is it not?” He knew perfectly well who she was, everyone did. It was intended as an insult.

  She smiled charmingly at him, a look that in her prime had dazzled princes.

  “It is,” she replied. “May I introduce you to Mr. Justice Quade?” She waved her hand delicately. “The Bishop of Putney, I believe, or some such place, renowned for his upholding of Christian virtues, most particularly purity of mind.”

  “Indeed,” Theloneus murmured. “How do you do.” An expression of great interest filled his ascetic face, his blue eyes mild and bright. “How fortunate for me to have encountered you. I should dearly like your opinion, as an informed and, of course, enlightened source, on the choice of story for this very lovely music. Is watching such fearful behavior instructive, in that evil is punished in the end? Or do you fear that the beauty with which it is presented may corrupt the senses before the better judgment can perceive the moral behind it?”

  “Well …” the bishop began.

  Vespasia did not remain. She tapped on the door of Garrick’s box, and the moment it was answered, went inside. She was dreading it. It was going to be forced, because they both knew that she would not have sought him out from friendship, and they had no interests in common.

  Garrick was a widower and he had a small party with him, his sister and her husband, who was a minor banker of some sort, and a friend of theirs, a widow from one of the home counties up to London for some reason. It was she who provided Vespasia with her excuse.

  “Lady Vespasia?” Garrick raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a good deal less than an expression of welcome. “How delightful to see you.” He would have used the same tone of voice had he found an apple core in his pudding.

  She inclined her head. “How typical of your generosity to say so,” she answered, dismissing it as if it had been a vulgarity apologized for at the table.

  His face tightened. He had no choice but to continue the charade by introducing his sister, her husband, and the lady who was visiting. Vespasia’s lack of reason for intruding hung heavily in the air. He did not quite ask her what she wanted, but the attitude of his body, the expectant angle of his head, demanded she explain herself.

  She smiled at the widow, a Mrs. Arbuthnott. “A friend of mine, Lady Wilmslow, has mentioned you most kindly,” she lied. “And she has asked me if I should encounter you to be sure to make your acquaintance.”

  Mrs. Arbuthnott blinked with pleasure. She had never heard of Lady Wilmslow, who, in any event, did not exist, but she certainly had heard of Vespasia, and was enormously complimented.

  Vespasia salved her guilt with generosity. “If you are in town for the rest of the month,” she continued, “I shall be at home on Mondays and Wednesdays, and if you find it convenient to call, you will be most welcome.” She slipped a card with her address out of its silver case in her reticule, and offered it.

  Mrs. Arbuthnott took it as if it had been a jewel, and indeed in social terms it was, and one that money could not purchase. She stammered her thanks, and Garrick’s sister hid her envy with difficulty. But then, if she conducted herself with any care at all, Mrs. Arbuthnott was her guest, and she could accompany her without raising any eyebrows.

  Vespasia turned to Garrick. “I hope you are well, Ferdinand?” It was merely a politeness, something one would say as a matter of form. The reply was expected in the affirmative; no information was required, or wished for.

  “In excellent health,” he replied. “And you appear to be also, but then I have never seen you look less.” He would not allow himself to be maneuvered into ill manners, especially in front of his guests.

  She smiled at him as if she had heard what he had said and accepted the compliment, although she knew it was made for effect, not because he meant it.

  “Thank you. You speak with such warmth one does not discard your generosity as merely the instinctive answer of courtesy.” There was a dark, angry part of her enjoying this. She had forgotten how much she disliked Garrick. He reminded her of other aggressively virtuous people she had known, closer to home, obsessed with rule-keeping, self-control, and slowness to forgive, a suspicion of laughter, and an icy pleasure in being right. Perhaps her opinion was more supposed than real. She was indulging in exactly the same sin for which she blamed him. Later, when she was alone, she must try to recall what she actually knew about him.

  She kept her face deliberately mild and interested. “How is Stephen? I believe I saw him in the park the other day, but he was moving at some speed, and I might have been mistaken. Would he have been riding with the Marsh girl, I cannot remember her name, the one with so much hair?”

  Garrick was absolutely motionless. There was no evidence of it, but she was certain that his mind was racing for an answer.

  “No,” he said at last. “It must have been someone else.”

  She remained looking at him expectantly, as though the merest courtesy demanded some further explanation. To have stopped there would be a snub.

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, for an instant quite unmistakable.

  Vespasia considered whether to notice it or not. She was afraid he would change the subject.

  “I apologize,” she said quickly, just before his brother-in-law could rescue him. “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

  Anger washed up his cheeks, dull red, and the muscles of his body locked rigid. “Don’t be absurd!” he said tartly, his eyes stabbing at her. “I was merely trying to think who it was you could have seen. Stephen has not been well. The coming winter will exacerbate his difficulty.” He breathed in. “He has gone to stay in the south of France for a spell. Milder climate. Drier.”

  “Very wise,” Vespasia acknowledged, uncertain whether she believed him or not. It was an extremely reasonable explanation in every way, and yet it did not sit well with what Gracie had heard from the kitchen staff at Torrington Square. “I hope he has someone trustworthy
to care for him,” she said with enough solicitude to be courteous.

  “Of course,” he replied. He took a breath. “He has taken his own manservant.”

  There was nothing she could add that would not betray an unseemly curiosity, and curiosity was a social sin of which she had never been guilty. It was vulgar, and implied that one’s own life was of insufficient interest to fill one’s mind. No one would care to admit to that; it was the ultimate failure.

  “I daresay he will feel the benefit,” she observed. “I admit I do not care for January and February very much myself. I preferred it when I spent more time in the country. A walk in the woods is a pleasure at any time of the year. London streets in the snow offer a great deal less—mostly wet skirts up to the knees, unless one is fortunate. The south of France sounds more and more appealing all the time.”

  He fixed her with a flintlike stare. It was not entirely her imagination that there was also enmity in it, a knowledge that she would not have come wholly as a gesture of courtesy to a woman she did not know.

  “I am most pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Arbuthnott,” she said graciously. “I am sure you will enjoy your stay in London.” She inclined her head to the sister and brother-in-law. “Good evening, Ferdinand,” she finished, and without waiting for acknowledgment she turned and went back into the passage leading from box to box. Only feet away, Theloneus was still standing with the bishop, a slightly glazed look on his face.

  “… misunderstanding of virtue,” the bishop was saying intently. “It is one of the curses of modern living that …”

  Theloneus was sorely in need of rescue.

  “Bishop, would you come to join us for champagne?” Vespasia said with a dazzling smile. “Or were you going to say that we drink too much of it? I daresay you are right, and of course you are bound in honor to set us all an example. So refreshing to have seen you here. Do enjoy the evening.” And she offered her hand to Theloneus, who took it immediately, trying hard to suppress his laughter.

  VISITING SAVILLE RYERSON was altogether a more difficult matter to arrange, and in spite of the fact that she was genuinely concerned that Martin Garvie had met with some misfortune, regardless of Garrick’s statement that he was in the south of France with Garrick’s son, her fear for Ryerson was deeper. At best he was going to be disillusioned in a woman he loved, perhaps not wisely but certainly with all the power of his nature. To find yourself betrayed, not only in fact but in hope, to have your dreams stained beyond repair, was one of the hardest of all tests of the soul. And at worst he could find himself in the dock beside Ayesha Zakhari, and perhaps even on the gallows as well.

  She did not bother to try the easy routes first. She could not afford the time taken by failure, nor perhaps the warning to others that she was so keenly interested she would call in old favors in order to see him.

  Therefore she went straight to see the appropriate assistant commissioner of police. A long while ago, in their youth, there had been a time when he had courted her, and later, when they were both married, there had been a long weekend house party in one of the great stately homes of the duke of something-or-other. An afternoon in the yew walk sprung to mind particularly. She disliked calling on memories in such a fashion—it lacked grace—but it was extremely useful, and Ryerson’s need was too profound for such delicacies to stand in her way.

  He received her without keeping her waiting. Time had been kind to him, but not as it had been to her. He was standing in the center of the floor of his office when she was shown in. He looked thinner than in the past, and his hair was very gray.

  “My dear …” he began, and then was uncertain quite how to address her. It had been many years since they were on familiar terms.

  She responded quickly, to save him embarrassment. “Arthur, how generous of you to see me so quickly, especially when you must be quite certain, when I have come in such indecent haste, that I am seeking a favor.” She was dressed in her customary pale colors of dove gray and ivory, pearls at her throat, gleaming to give light to her face. She had learned over the years exactly what became her best. Even the most beautiful of women, or the youngest, have colors and lines which do not flatter them.

  “It is always a pleasure to see you, whatever the reason,” he replied, and if he was saying only what was expected of him, he did it with an air of sincerity one could not disbelieve. “Please …” He indicated the chair at one side of his desk, and waited until she was seated and her skirts arranged with a single flick, to fall richly and without creasing. “What may I do for you?” he asked.

  She had debated for some time whether to be direct or indirect. Arthur had been somewhat unsophisticated in the past, but time might have altered that, and he was now no longer in love with her, which fact in itself would give him a better ability to judge. There was no romantic ardor to blunt his intellect. She decided on directness. To attempt to mislead him would be insulting. But then so would simple statements of need without at least lip service to the past, and the delicacy of memory.

  “I have acquired some interesting relatives since we last met,” she said with ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to discuss. “By marriage, of course. I daresay you recall my late great-nephew, George Ashworth?”

  Arthur’s face fell into immediate, quite genuine regret. “I am so sorry! What a tragedy.”

  His words enabled her to dispense with whole paragraphs of explanation.

  “There is much tragedy indeed,” she agreed with a slight smile. “But through his marriage I acquired a great-niece whose sister is married to a policeman … of remarkable ability.” She saw his start of amazement. “I have from time to time involved myself in certain issues, and learned to understand some of the causes of crime in a way I did not when I was younger. I daresay the same is true for you… .” She let it hang, not quite a question.

  “Oh, yes, police work is …” He lifted his shoulders. She noticed again how much thinner he was, but it was not unbecoming.

  “Exactly!” she agreed firmly. “That is why I have come to you. You are in a unique position to give me some small assistance.” Before he could ask her what it was, she hurried on. “I am sure you are as puzzled and distressed as I am by this miserable business at Eden Lodge. I have known Saville Ryerson for many years—”

  Arthur shook his head. “I can tell you nothing, Vespasia, for the simple reason that I know nothing.”

  “Of course!” She smiled. “I am not asking you for information, my dear. It would be entirely inappropriate. But I would like to be able to see Saville myself, urgently, and in private.” She did not wish to offer any explanation, but she had prepared one in case he should request it.

  “It would be most unpleasant for you,” he said awkwardly. “And there really is nothing you can do for him. He has all the necessities, and any luxuries he is permitted. The charge is accessory to murder, Vespasia. For any man that is serious, but to one who has had the position and the trust that he has, it is devastating.”

  “I am aware of that, Arthur. As I said, I have had far more experience of the less-attractive sides of human nature since poor George’s death. I have even been of assistance now and then. If I am placing you in a position of difficulty, where honor obliges you to refuse me, then please do me the courtesy, for old friendship’s sake, of telling me so directly.”

  “No, it does not!” he said quickly. “I … I was thinking only of your sensibilities, and embarrassment if you should find him greatly … changed. You may not be able to avoid the conviction that he is after all guilty. I …”

  “For heaven’s sake, Arthur!” she said impatiently. “Have you confused me with someone else in the pleasant summers of your past? I fought on the barricades in Rome in ’48. I am not a stranger to unpleasantness! I have seen squalor, betrayal, and death in many forms—some of them in high society! May I see Saville Ryerson—or not?”

  “Of course you may, my dear. I shall see to it this afternoon. P
erhaps you will do me the honor of taking luncheon with me? And we shall talk of the parties we used to have when summers were longer—and warmer than they seem to be now.”

  She smiled at him with true affection, remembering the yew walk, and a certain herbaceous border with a blaze of blue delphiniums. “Thank you, Arthur. I should be delighted.”

  SHE WAS SHOWN into the room where her meeting with Ryerson had been arranged, and the guard withdrew and left her alone. It was a little before six in the evening, and already the gas lamps were burning inside because the single window was high and narrow.

  She had not long to wait before the door opened again and Ryerson came in. Tired as he was, robbed of the immaculate shirts and cravats he normally wore, he looked pale, a little untidy. But he was still a big man, not shrunken or bowed by fear, although she saw it in his eyes as soon as the door was closed again and he turned to her.

  “Good evening, Saville,” she said quietly. “Please sit down. I dislike having to crane my neck to see you.”

  “Why have you come?” he asked, obeying her, his face sad, his shoulders a little hunched. “This is no place for you, and you hardly owe me this. All your crusading for social justice does not include visits to the guilty.” His eyes did not evade hers. “And I am guilty, Vespasia. I would have helped her move the body to the park and leave it there. Indeed, I actually picked it up and placed it in the wheelbarrow … and the gun. I appreciate your kindness, but it is done in a misapprehension of the facts.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Saville!” she said tartly. “I am not a fool! Of course you moved the wretched man’s body. Thomas Pitt is my great-nephew … at least he is by virtue of several marriages. I possibly know more of the affair than you do.” She was gratified to see him look genuinely startled.

  “Whose marriages, in God’s name?” he asked.

  “His, of course, you fool!” she retorted. “It would hardly be mine.”