Page 107 of The English Wife

He had, Janie was sure, read the papers, but the form of the law needed to be followed. Janie felt very sorry for the coroner.

Mr. Lacey held the picture out in one hand, scrutinizing it with exaggerated effort. At length, he set it down. “I regret to say that I can. This is Georgiana Smith, my cousin’s natural daughter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lacey, you may—”

“My cousin never acknowledged her, of course. He called her his ‘ward.’ But everyone knew. And it ate away at Georgie. That’s what everyone called her: Georgie.” The disdain in Mr. Lacey’s voice was palpable.

“Yes, Mr. Lacey, thank—”

Mr. Lacey stampeded on. “Whatever Annabelle had, Georgie wanted. She couldn’t bear that Annabelle was Miss Lacey of Lacey Abbey and she was lower than a foundling. She used to deck herself in Annabelle’s cast-offs and play at being a lady. It was my cousin’s fault, of course, for raising her with Annabelle. He ought to have known better. It gave the girl ideas above her station.”

Next to her, Janie’s mother was regarding Mr. Lacey with approval. Her mother had strong ideas about people with ideas above their station. Anne shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the rich purple grosgrain of her skirt in odd contrast to the scarred wood of the bench.

“Georgie was sick with jealousy of Annabelle. She even had a mad idea that Annabelle’s brother was really her brother, her twin, torn away from her at birth because my cousin needed a male heir to inherit the abbey.” Mr. Lacey laughed, but the sound was hollow. “If that isn’t insane, I ask you, what is?”

“Thank you, Mr. Lacey.” The coroner half rose from his seat. “You have been very helpful—”

“That’s why, when Annabelle disappeared, I knew immediately what must have happened. I didn’t want to believe it; who would? No one wants to think that someone they know is capable of”—Mr. Lacey’s voice dropped thrillingly—“the Ultimate Sin.”

The coroner sat back down in his chair, looking in serious need of a headache powder. “What are you implying, Mr. Lacey?”

“I’m not implying it, I’m saying it.” For a moment, there was almost a dignity about Mr. Lacey, but then he spoiled it by saying, incredulously, “Can you believe she had the gall to come to me and tell me that now that Annabelle was gone we could be together? As if I would ever lower myself to marry the likes of her.”

Janie’s gloved hands were cold; she pressed them together in her lap, her breath tight in her chest. Of everything Mr. Lacey had said, this had the ring of truth. The indignation. The arrogance. Everything else had sounded like a sham, but this, in all its ugliness, its naked pride, sounded more like memory than fabrication.

Mr. Lacey’s voice dropped to a throbbing baritone. “I have spent the past seven years trying to bring Georgiana Smith to justice—for the murder of my cousin Annabelle.”

The courtroom exploded into excited chatter, but Mr. Lacey managed to raise his voice just enough to get one valedictory shot into the fray.

“When I heard what had happened here, I knew. She’s killed before. Why wouldn’t she kill again?”

The bailiff had to call for order several times before the noise in the courtroom abated, and even then the room kept bursting into excited chatter.

One woman had fainted, managing to aim herself clear across a full row of people, upsetting one man’s flask, which saturated the room with the scent of strong alcohol. The press bench were in an uproar, divided between staying to see what else Mr. Lacey might have to say and rushing off to be first to telephone the scoop back to their respective news organs. If imposters made good news, mad, murderous imposters were even better.

Mr. Lacey leaned back against the wooden back of the stand, well pleased with the sensation he had created.

The coroner pounded the table with his gavel to no avail, looking as if he rather wished it were Giles’s head.

“Thank you, Mr. Lacey,” he said when he was able to make himself heard. “You may step down.”

“But—”

“The court is adjourned sine die. We will reconvene in the morning.”

There was grumbling, but the sky was already turning the early dark of winter. The courtroom, even with the press of people, was colder than comfortable—which, Janie noticed, hadn’t prevented a light sheen of sweat from appearing on the coroner’s forehead. She didn’t blame him. It wouldn’t take much for the excitement in the room to turn ugly.

“It’s too fantastical,” Janie said to Anne as the room behind them heaved with people gathering possessions and jostling towards the doors. “Lost heirs and false twins and impersonations.”

“The press appears to be enjoying it,” said Anne.

As they both looked to the press bench, Mr. Burke tipped his hat at Janie, then turned to file out with the rest.

Anne adjusted her fur-lined cuffs, her eyes on Burke’s retreating back. “Should you be fraternizing with the press, Janie?”

“It’s not what you think,” said Janie, and felt her cheeks pink at the look Anne gave her. Anne, of all people. “We needed someone who would tell us frankly what was being said. I have an arrangement with Mr. Burke. A business arrangement.”

A network of lines fanned from Anne’s nose to her lips. “Don’t be naïve, Janie. They’re all out for what they can get. You should look how you go.”