Death on Blackheath

by Anne Perry

  “I have always liked Impressionist paintings. They seem to have a freedom of the mind. Even if you don’t like the work itself, it offers you a dozen different ways to see it and interpret it. Something that is strictly representational forces on you its reality straightaway.”

  “I never thought of that,” Rosalind said with very evident pleasure. “Perhaps we could stay here all afternoon?” She did not add how much the idea appealed to her; it was clear in her face.

  The first room was taken up almost entirely with paintings of trees, light on leaves, shadows on grass, and impressions of movement in the wind. Emily was happy to gaze at them for their own beauty for quite some time, and allow Rosalind to do the same, although she did glance several times at her face and study the expression in it. Rosalind was clearly troubled. Emily had been right in her observation that the subtle nature of the art allowed a great deal of one’s own emotion to come to the surface, the dark as well as the light. It had been a dangerous place to come for that reason—so much feeling could be laid bare. But one mistake of too much candor too soon could destroy it all, like smashing a mirror, so that you would never know what the reflection had been.

  She moved up to join Rosalind in front of a pencil drawing of windblown trees.

  “Doesn’t it make you wonder what was going on in the mind of the artist?” she said quietly. “There is so much strain in those branches. Some of them look close to breaking.”

  “I suppose everyone has their own wind, and their own darkness,” Rosalind said quietly. “Perhaps that is what real art is. Any good journeyman can capture the individual and reproduce what the eye sees. A genius can capture the universal in what everyone feels … or perhaps not everyone, but people of a thousand different sorts.”

  There would never be a clearer opportunity. It was almost as if Rosalind were seeking an opening to speak.

  “You are right,” Emily agreed quietly so that anyone else entering the room would not chance to overhear her. “This drawing looks as if the branches are all hugging each other in the darkness, afraid of the violence outside.”

  “I see the violence inside, and the darkness beyond,” Rosalind said with a tiny, tense little smile. “And I see them huddling, but not together except by chance.”

  Emily affected not to have noticed anything raw or painful in her words, but her heart was hammering in her chest. “What about the picture over there?” She indicated one also of branches, but utterly different in mood. It made one smile simply to look at it. “To me it is the complete opposite, and yet the subject is the same.”

  “The light,” Rosalind said without hesitation. “In that one the wind is warm, and the branches are dancing in it. All the leaves flutter, like frills, or skirts.”

  “Dancers,” Emily said thoughtfully. “That’s right—absolutely. You know what intrigues me about dancing? It is very difficult for someone else to tell how your partner is holding you, lightly, supportively, or so tightly you are bruised and you know you cannot escape. I wonder if someone has painted real dancers the way this artist has painted the branches. It would be something to attempt, wouldn’t it? If you were a painter?”

  “Perhaps that is what group portraiture is about,” Rosalind suggested.

  Emily laughed. “Not if you want another commission!”

  Rosalind spread her hands in a tiny little gesture of submission. “Of course,” she agreed. “You must paint people the way they wish to be seen. But would any great artist do that, except to earn enough to live on?”

  “Can anyone afford not to make accommodations?” Emily asked in return.

  By then they had moved to the next room where most of the paintings were seascapes, or views of lakes and rivers.

  “I like the sea pictures better,” Rosalind observed. “The open horizon.” She hesitated a moment. “That one is beautiful and terrible—the loneliness in it, even despair. It looks like a gravel pit, deserted and filled in with water.”

  Emily said nothing, waiting.

  “I’m sure you must have heard that my lady’s maid is missing,” Rosalind went on, looking at the painting, not at Emily. “And that there was a body found in the gravel pits near us. We don’t know yet whether it is Kitty, or not.”

  “Yes,” Emily agreed. “It must be dreadful for you … I can’t imagine.” She could imagine very well, but it was not the time to be speaking about herself, or the tragedies of her own past.

  “The worst part is the suspicion,” Rosalind went on. “I can’t help hoping she is alive and well somewhere, for everyone’s sake. But she wasn’t an irresponsible person at all. Everyone is suggesting that she ran off with the young man she was courting, but I don’t believe it. I can’t. She liked him, but she wasn’t in love. Ailsa says she was, but I know better. Either she’s dead, or she ran away for some other, real reason.” For a moment Rosalind’s face looked as utterly bleak as the painted gravel pit on the wall.

  Emily felt she must say something, not only because she could not let the opportunity slip out of her grasp, but out of ordinary kindness.

  “Are you sure you are not letting your fondness for her make you overlook her faults?” she asked gently. “Wouldn’t you rather think she was flighty and on rare occasions selfish, rather than dead? After all, who could she be so afraid of that she would run off into the night without a word?” Dare she take it any further? If she did, it must be now! She hesitated only a moment. “Wouldn’t you have sensed it? A look in her face, a clumsiness perhaps, an inattention to detail? It is very hard to conceal fear great enough to make you run off alone into a winter night! It was January then, wasn’t it? I don’t really like to go out in January even wrapped up and in a carriage, and knowing I will come back to my own bed.”

  Rosalind turned a little and stared at her, hollow-eyed. “Neither do I,” she said in a little above a whisper. “But I have been safe, physically safe, all my life. I’m not a servant, and I don’t know anything that could be dangerous.”

  “What could she know?” Emily seized the chance offered her. “It would have to have been something she couldn’t tell you …”

  “That is what frightens me,” Rosalind replied, her voice now so strained it was barely recognizable. “There is nothing about me that is even interesting, let alone threatening to anyone. It must be about my husband, or my sister-in-law.” She took in a deep breath and let it out. “Or Bennett. He’s been dead nearly nine years, and yet it is as if he still lived in the house somewhere just out of sight. No one ever forgets him.”

  Emily thought for only a moment. “You mean Ailsa still loves him too much to consider marrying again?”

  Rosalind did not answer immediately. She appeared to give the matter thought. “I’m not sure,” she said at length. “She does accept various social invitations from other men, but they seem to cool after a while. So yes, perhaps you are right. That is what she tells Dudley, anyway. But Dudley loved Bennett profoundly. Even for brothers, they were very close.” She smiled, and there was a deep warmth to it. “That is one of the nicest qualities about Dudley: he is totally loyal, and if he judges at all, then he judges kindly. He was always protective of the young, and of course Bennett was younger than he. I remember Dudley with our sons. He was patient, no matter how exasperating they were at times … and they were. In fact, he was gentler than I … I am ashamed to admit.”

  “And your daughters?” Emily said with interest.

  Rosalind shrugged. “Oh, he was always patient with the girls, and with me. And with Ailsa, for that matter. Women don’t tempt him to be otherwise. I’m not certain if that is because he doesn’t expect so much of us …”

  “Some men just are patient,” Emily agreed. She thought momentarily of Jack with Evangeline. She could twist him around her little finger, and he did not even bother to deny it.

  She looked at Rosalind, deciding what line to pursue, intensely aware of the distress in her. “Ailsa seems to be strong-willed enough not to need a great deal of
protection,” she observed. “Am I jumping to too quick a judgment?”

  “No, not at all,” Rosalind said instantly. “I …” She shook her head. “No, I am at fault. I should not judge either. To me Ailsa seems immensely strong, but she was torn apart by Bennett’s death. It was just that with her it seemed on the outside to be anger, even rage that fate had taken from her the one man she loved. I …” She shook her head again. “I never loved in that kind of way. Perhaps because I have children? I don’t know. If Dudley died I would miss him terribly. I expect every day I would be aware of the emptiness, all the things he said, did, cared about … everything. I would weep inside, as he still does for Bennett, I know. But I don’t believe I would rage at fate.”

  Emily thought how she would feel if Jack were to die. Alone … as if she would be alone for the rest of her life. If she knew beyond doubt that he really had left her, either openly, physically, or just by being emotionally absent, then she would rage! Her anger might be beyond control, at times, but it would be a defense against tears. She knew that almost as if it had actually happened. It would be as if the sweet wine of life had turned to vinegar. The thought was cold and real inside her.

  “What was he like … Bennett?” she asked.

  Rosalind gave a little laugh. “Like this picture, with the sunlight in the trees,” she answered. “Do you think we should move on? Are we stopping other people from studying this one?” She glanced around to see if anyone was waiting, but no one else was in the room except a couple of men staring at a different picture over on the opposite wall.

  “Probably,” Emily agreed. “We’ll see what’s in the next room.”

  It turned out to be landscapes in various moods, all of them profoundly beautiful in their own way. With so much passion around them it was easier to be honest than it might have been in a more conventional place.

  “What was Bennett like?” Rosalind repeated Emily’s question. “When I think back on it, I didn’t see him nearly as often as one would suppose, from the impression he made on me. He was very like Dudley in some ways: his interests, his mannerisms, his sense of humor. But he was quicker, more certain of himself. He had boundless dreams, and he had few doubts that one day he would achieve at least most of them. In a way that’s why it was so difficult to realize he was dead. It all happened very quickly. One day he was ill, and in a week he was gone. We couldn’t grasp it—especially not Dudley. After all that had—” She stopped.

  Emily waited. They were standing near a broad, sweeping landscape with huge skies: the left side was filled with blue distance, the right a driving storm coming in rapidly, darkening everything, heavy with threat.

  “We thought the worst was past,” Rosalind said simply, as if everyone would know what she meant.

  Perhaps it was indelicate, but Emily could not now leave it.

  “He had been ill before?” she asked.

  “Bennett was in Sweden,” Rosalind said after a moment or two. “Many years ago now. Before he ever met Ailsa. I don’t know what happened. Dudley was frantic. I’ve never seen him so desperate. He received a message and dropped everything. He went to Sweden the very next day, and I didn’t hear from him for weeks. When he returned he brought Bennett with him, and they never told me what happened. Bennett looked ashen, and thin. He stayed with us. Dudley wouldn’t let him out of his sight.”

  The two gentlemen walked past them talking earnestly.

  “He used to have nightmares,” Rosalind continued when they were out of earshot. “I heard him crying out in the night. Dudley never told me why, and gradually it passed. Bennett regained his strength and went back to his work. A year or two after that he met Ailsa and shortly after they were married.”

  “Then the illness returned?” Emily said, her heart heavy with a sense of tragedy. “But this time it was too swift, and there was nothing they could do to help him?”

  “I suppose so,” Rosalind answered, looking suddenly away from the painting and at Emily. “But that was all long before Kitty came to us, and there was definitely nothing about it that was anything except tragic. I … I wish I could do something to help in this mess! Dudley has had more than enough pain.”

  Emily looked at the racing clouds in the painting and the heavy shadow they cast on the land. She shivered involuntarily.

  “That sounds self-pitying, doesn’t it!” Rosalind said, annoyed with herself. “We have a beautiful home. Dudley’s work is terribly important, and he is extremely good at it. We have money and position, and healthy sons and daughters, and here am I with the arrogance to speak of pain.”

  “Not knowing the truth is always painful,” Emily said with sincerity. “No matter how much you love, if you are afraid of losing it all, then the icy edge of that storm is upon you already.”

  Rosalind smiled, and there were tears in her eyes. She put her hand on Emily’s arm in a quick gesture, then withdrew it again.

  “Would you care for afternoon tea? I know it is a little early, but I should like to take you to a small place I know will be open and is quite delightful.”

  “An excellent idea,” Emily agreed.

  ALL THE WAY HOME in her carriage afterwards Emily thought over everything that Rosalind had said, and even more what she had left unsaid. Over tea they had spoken of many things, mostly totally trivial, often even funny. Rosalind was well informed about a number of subjects. She spoke with enthusiasm about music, and had some knowledge of various pianists. She was interested in the history of glass, going back to ancient Egypt and forward to present-day Venice and the glass features in Murano. Emily began to hope with some energy that Jack would find himself working for Dudley Kynaston. She would enjoy a further friendship with his wife.

  A friendship with his sister-in-law did not even occur to her until she realized how seldom Rosalind had mentioned Ailsa. In fact, it had been only once more, to say that they had gone together to some event that had been Ailsa’s idea. Apart from that, they had had an interesting and entertaining afternoon without thought of her at all.

  And yet Ailsa had appeared on other occasions to be so large a part of the Kynastons’ life. Was it actually only a kindness, including her because she appeared to have no other family?

  Thinking back on the few times she had been in the company of both women, Emily remembered Ailsa always seeming to be in charge, like the elder sister, although she was probably several years younger. But there had been little actual warmth between her and Rosalind.

  Was that of any importance at all? Possibly not. Nevertheless Emily wanted to find out a bit more about Ailsa Kynaston. Preferably when not in Rosalind’s company, though. Among many other things she had learned about Rosalind was that she was far wiser and more observant than she affected to be.

  Creating the opportunity to observe Ailsa was now the challenge. If Ailsa were indeed at the heart of the problem—somehow connected with the disappearance of Kitty Ryder—then it might be dangerous to openly inquire about her. The thought did not deter Emily, but she knew she must plan with care. She would find out Ailsa’s interests, what plays she liked, what exhibitions, who in her circle of friends Emily herself might also know.

  AS IT TURNED OUT, fate played directly into Emily’s hands. She accompanied Jack to a formal party with several other people in government; previously she had said she would not go, afraid that she would appear clinging and a trifle possessive. Now her purpose regarding Ailsa changed everything. She was also determined to support Jack not just tacitly but positively, and oblige him to be aware of her and happy that she was present.

  She dressed carefully in her favorite shade: pale green, more delicate than the earliest leaves, known as “waters of the Nile,” or in the far more sophisticated French “eau de Nil.” It was the softest silk, floating when she moved, and the sheen of it caught the light. Naturally it was the latest cut: soft at the shoulder and neck, smooth and slender at the hip. Pearls might have been more appropriate considering the name of the color, but she wore d
iamonds. She wanted the fire and the sparkle.

  She was satisfied as she swept down the stairs towards Jack, who was waiting for her at the bottom, that she had achieved the result she wished. He said nothing, but his eyes widened and he gave a little sigh of satisfaction. So far, she was succeeding.

  The effect of her entrance at the party was also gratifying. However, it took only a few minutes to realize that she certainly had no monopoly on beauty or attention. Moments later Ailsa Kynaston arrived, sufficiently late to ensure everyone was aware of her, but not enough to be discourteous.

  She was dressed in cream and gold. It was a daring combination for a woman of such pale coloring, but she carried it superbly, with a confidence that challenged anyone to find fault with her.

  However, what took Emily’s attention was the fact that she was on the arm of Edom Talbot, whom she knew to be one of the men closest to the prime minister, even though he held no specific government position. But Emily knew from Charlotte that Talbot had taken a dislike to Pitt, and made his investigation of the Kynaston affair more difficult than it needed to be. Or perhaps it was not Talbot’s intention, rather his necessity, because of the sensitivity of Kynaston’s position with the navy.

  Looking at him very carefully now, Emily saw a man striking in appearance because of his height and casual strength. He carried himself as if he had tested and proved his physical superiority many times. There was a kind of unspoken arrogance in his posture, something slightly intimidating.

  Did Ailsa find that pleasing? To Emily that arrogance seemed slightly ill bred. A gentleman did not ever intentionally make others feel uncomfortable, unless given pressing cause to.

  Some women found dangerous men attractive. Emily considered their taste, conversely, to be a sign of some kind of inner weakness. And weakness was dangerous. It was those aware of their own disadvantage that often attacked others.

  Someone spoke to her, and she made a light and meaningless reply, smiling with the charm she had always known how to use.