“Julia, I cannot imagine who would do such a thing to us.”
I hesitated. I did not like to pose such a question, but it must be asked. “Then you did not…” My voice trailed off.
She shook her head, almost angrily. “Of course not. How could I do such a thing to my Lucy?” She turned her head on the pillow to look at her sister nestled against her.
“I am sorry, Emma. It was a possibility, you know.”
She closed her eyes. “I know.” We sat in silence so long I began to think she had drifted into sleep. But then she opened her eyes and looked at me.
“That would have been the coward’s way, and I am no coward,” she said, more to herself than to me.
Before I could reply, Lucy stirred and raised herself a little. “Lie down, dearest,” Emma told her. “You must not tire yourself.”
Lucy obeyed, and I moved around to her side of the bed. She turned, giving me a sad, sleepy smile. “Hullo, Julia.”
I moved straight to the heart of the matter. “Lucy, I know this has been a terrible shock for you, but you must know that your family stand with you. We know you did not do this thing.”
She laid the back of her arm to her brow, staring up at the ceiling. She made no reply, and I went on. “Lucian Snow was not killed by your hand. We know this for a fact. The evidence says he died of strangulation, by a hand much larger and stronger than yours.”
Without preamble, a sob erupted from her, tearing from her throat. She folded in half, her face to her knees, keening. Emma started for her, but I put an arm about Lucy’s shoulder.
“I do not know why you claimed you did this, but we know you did not. And we will make certain the authorities know it as well.”
Suddenly, Lucy stumbled from the bed to the washstand and began to retch. She had eaten nothing, but she doubled over, heaving until the spell passed. Emma went to her and stroked her back, murmuring soothing things until she finished. Then I handed her my handkerchief to mop her face. When she was done, she looked a great deal more lucid than she had since we had discovered her bending over Lucian’s body.
She returned to the bed, and when Emma had tucked the coverlets firmly about her, Lucy clutched at my hand, pressing it to her hot face. “Oh, Julia, I do not know what happened. All I remember is leaving the drawing room to play sardines, then a great blackness. There is simply nothing there until I came to when you found me, standing there…” She broke off, her voice catching, but with a great effort of will she mastered it. “I have thought and thought, but I cannot retrieve any memory of the time between. I only know that I saw him there, broken, and I knew I had struck him. I knew that I must have done something unspeakable.”
I thought of the Easter holidays Lucy and Emma had spent with us as children, of the little nothings that sometimes went missing, children’s trinkets, but usually something of sentimental value. I thought of how Lucy’s nose always itched when she lied about whether she had seen them. Always, that telltale little twitch, giving her away. I watched her now, pressing the handkerchief hard against the tip of her nose.
“Did you see anyone when you were playing sardines?”
Lucy shrugged helplessly. “I do not know. I have no memory of it.” She scrubbed at her nose. “It is so cold here,” she said apologetically, not quite meeting my eyes.
We talked for a long time. Emma said nothing. Perhaps she knew how important it was for the questions to be asked, and answered. I questioned Lucy by every possible method, but her answers were always the same. She had quit the lesser drawing room alone. From the time she left until the time Brisbane and I had discovered her with the candelabrum, she had no memory whatsoever—not of sound or sight, nor even scent. After awhile she began to droop, and I took pity on her.
I rose and Emma threw me a grateful look. “Lucy, you must eat something. You also, Emma. It’s very important to keep up your strength. I promise you, we will discover the truth.”
Emma smiled her thanks, but Lucy was not looking at me. She was staring at the ceiling again, her eyes fixed once more on the slender web of hammerbeams that hung above her head.
* * *
Luncheon was an understandably solemn affair. Father had said nothing about Aunt Dorcas, but to my astonishment, he seemed angry rather than worried. Violante sulked openly while Lysander chewed his fingernails and did not even pretend to eat. Plum pushed the food around his plate as he shot significant glances at Charlotte King. That worried me a trifle. Plum was subject to occasional fancies, not the least of which was a penchant for the role of Galahad. He loved nothing better than to rescue damsels in distress, and Charlotte bore all the hallmarks of a lady in need of a knight. She was a comely, vivacious widow whose engagement was likely at an end, marooned in the middle of Sussex with a houseful of people she scarcely knew and a murderer. Even more worrisome, she did nothing to discourage Plum. Instead she alternated hurt, puzzled looks at Brisbane with gazes of mute longing toward my brother. With such a performance, it was a wonder she was able to eat at all, but I noticed she managed to tuck away three helpings of the curried lamb. If she was not careful, she would soon have to let out her stays, I thought spitefully.
For his part, Brisbane was entirely indifferent. He too ate three helpings of the lamb, as well as a sizeable portion of roast potatoes and an enormous plate of cherry tarts with almond cream. Father managed a bit of everything, but he seemed distracted, putting mustard on his peas and salt on his dessert. He ate it anyway, and I noticed Hortense doing her best to amuse him. From time to time he smiled wearily at her, and I looked away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. It was apparent to me now that he needed her, and I was pleased to find that I was comfortable with the notion. I turned to Alessandro then, sorry to find him quiet and withdrawn. The murder had upset him terribly, and from the hollow look about his eyes, I thought it entirely possible he had not slept at all the previous night. I did my best to entice him into conversation, but his replies were succinct to the point of backwardness, and after a few minutes I gave up.
Understandably, Sir Cedric and Henry were quiet, eating stolidly, without contribution to the conversation or any apparent pleasure in their food. I had not yet had a chance to speak with Sir Cedric about Lucy, and he spent most of the luncheon hour shooting me significant glances. I tried giving him a reassuring nod, but he simply redoubled his efforts. I ignored them and toyed with my food, too often putting my fork down still laden; the image of Snow’s cold corpse was yet too vivid and too many unanswered questions lingered in my mind. Portia heroically took on the chore of steering the conversation, butterflying from subject to subject, skillfully avoiding any topics which might be awkward. I suppose that is how we arrived at the subject of Christmas again, and Charlotte’s role in the stirring up of the puddings.
“So very kind of you to lend a hand,” Portia finished brightly.
I speared a bit of potato and pushed it around the plate.
“My dearest mama always taught me, ‘One must lend a hand wherever one can,’” Charlotte put in earnestly.
I threw Brisbane a hateful look. I still could not quite believe he had taken the trouble to propose marriage to her. She was ridiculous, with her cloying sweetness and her silly platitudes. She could not have held his attention for the duration of a fish course, much less the rest of their lives.
Lysander roused himself then. “Who is expected for Christmas? I am rather surprised we have not seen Benedick and his brood yet.”
Benedick, perhaps the favourite of my brothers, lived on the Home Farm, the other side of the Abbey from Blessingstoke. He had been conspicuously absent of late. I missed him, and his delightful wife. My nieces and nephews were another matter altogether. They were like very good, aged cognac: delicious, but only in very small doses.