Page 34 of A Murder at Kew Gardens

“Belgrave Square,” I told the driver.

The cab smelled of leather and old tobacco, and the seat had been worn to the shape of a hundred strangers. We rattled out of the square and south, past the park railings, where the fashionable hour had not yet begun and the paths belonged to nursemaids and their charges. I settled back and rehearsed nothing. That was the difficulty of questioning a friend. One could not arrive with the questions laid out like instruments on a tray. Claire would give me more if I let her find her own way to it.

If Claire remembered one more thing about Sir Basil Crane, one thing she had thought too insignificant to mention before, it might be enough. Investigations, I had learned, often turned upon the smallest of recollections.

Belgravia received me with its usual white-stuccoed composure. Whatever went on inside those houses, the outsides never revealed a thing.

Claire’s butler admitted me at once. Once upon a time, I had been a frequent visitor. Before the investigations consumed a fair amount of my time. Before Steele occupied a large part of my thoughts.

“Is Lady Edmunds receiving?”

“Yes, my lady. In the morning room.”

He showed me in.

The house seemed subdued, as though it had drawn its curtains against the world and intended to remain that way. The hall was dim, hushed in the manner of a house where the servants had taken to walking softly.

Claire was seated by the window with a piece of embroidery in her lap and a basket of silks at her feet. A shawl lay about her shoulders, though the room was not cold.

She looked up as I stepped into the room. “Rosalynd.” A smile touched her face, but it did not last long.

I crossed the room and kissed her cheek. It was cool beneath my lips. “Am I interrupting?”

She glanced down at the embroidery. “Not in the least. I’ve spent the last quarter of an hour untangling the same piece of silk.”

The silk had not improved from her efforts. It lay in a small, stubborn knot of blue and silver upon her lap.

I sat beside her, close enough that our skirts touched. Some conversations went better within reach. “How are you?”

She lowered her eyes. “I don’t know.”

The answer hurt my heart.

I took one of her hands. Her cold fingers curled around mine at once. She had been holding herself together by sheer determination and was glad, for a moment, of something else to hold.

“Any news?” Her voice fairly vibrated with hope.

Unfortunately, I had none to offer. “Not yet. But Steele has Finch looking into Crane. He expects a report soon.”

She tried to smile and failed.

I had never seen Claire fail to smile before. She had always possessed a vibrant cheerfulness, a way of making a room seem warmer merely by sitting in it. Now she looked pale and tired, and there was a strain about her eyes that made her appear older than her twenty-six years.

Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to her middle.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

She looked surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s nearly two o’clock. Have you eaten?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so?” I resolved to have a word with her cook before I left.

A tiny laugh escaped her. “You sound exactly like Cosmos.” The mention of his name dimmed her expression at once. “I wish he were here.”

I pressed her hands. “He will be soon.”