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“Was talking about you not long ago, m’boy. About that woman your man photographed. Dash it, if she hasn’t plagued me these past few days?”
“Mrs Eustace? The spiritualist?” Hamish prompted.
“You see, I thought it was Lady Bradden. Such a likeness.”
Hamish stilled. He had to nip this in the bud. “And then you realised it wasn’t,” he said, as if it was a fact,” he said as he sank into an overstuffed chair by the fire.
“Couldn’t be, I realised. Poor woman died six months ago after being incarcerated in a lunatic asylum on the Continent.”
Hamish’s scalp felt tight, and his chest constricted. “Really?”
“Yes, read it in The Times.” Sir Lionel took a contemplative sip of his whisky, adding, “My daughter seemed uncommonly intrigued by the woman. Followed the story—what there was of it. Lady Bradden had an affair, guilt sent her mad, and then she died.”
“She had an affair?” Hamish realised he’d spoken too loudly. A crackling of newspapers broke the silence of the hushed atmosphere at the club as various members sent disapproving glances in his direction. He was embarrassed to have brought attention upon them. Of course he knew she’d had an affair. But that was of no concern to him.
“Ah well,” he said, “I daresay that’s of no account now, if the lady is no loger with us,” he said, smiling at his companion.
In the midday light, there was a greyish pallor to the old man’s complexion. He didn’t look as robust as he had when he’d taken whisky with Hamish not so long ago.
“Dash it if I didn’t do some investigating,” Sir Lionel leaned down and picked up a satchel at his feet. From it, he withdrew a photographic plate. He clearly wasn’t about to let the matter drop. “I found this taken of a house party I attended at Sir Bradden’s in Norfolk three years ago.”
Hamish took the photograph and held it to the light.
About ten people were clustered together by the portico of a gracious manor house. Hamish squinted, recognising Sir Lionel in the front row before his gaze ran the length of the visitors, and then found the host and hostess seated a little to the right.
His breath hitched. The petite woman next to Sir Lionel was staring with fierce intensity at the camera, a jaunty bonnet upon her curled hair. On her striped skirts, she nursed a small dog. Beside her, a much older man scowled, a proprietorial hand upon her arm.
Lily.
Hamish cleared his throat. “This is Lady Bradden?” he clarified.
Hamish could not draw his gaze from the photograph. There was a wildness to the woman’s eyes that reminded him of Lily as he’d seen her just now. She wore her beauty like a disguise. It was there if he looked closely enough, but the grimness of her expression and the wildness in her eyes was more arresting than anything else.
Sir Lionel nodded. “She came to London once, perhaps twice, but she was very much under
her husband’s thumb being so very young and he, so much older and disinterested.”
Hamish peered closer. “Yes, her husband looks a good deal older.” He tried to puzzle it out.
“It was the unhappiest marriage I ever witnessed, but little wonder for her father allowed her no say in the matter, and was as anxious as any I ever knew to despatch his daughter to the first taker.”
Was Sir Lionel touched in the head to speak in such a frank manner to Hamish? Were his faculties deserting him? Hamish had not thought so a week ago.
Now, when he looked closer at the old man, he discerned a pent-up passion that also had been absent during their convivial conversation about Sir Lionel’s claims to the fame and notoriety he was so willing to boast about.
Embarrassed, Hamish cleared his throat. “I’m sure many marriages are so,” he dissembled. He knew his parents’ union had fallen into that category.
“This one was particularly…cruel.” Sir Lionel twisted his head to look at him with rheumy eyes. “There was talk at the time that her father, old Tavener, conducted matters with particular disregard for the feelings of his only child.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, I’d had my own dealings with the fellow and didn’t hold him in high regard.” He reached down and withdrew another photograph from his satchel. “Do you know this young woman?” he asked, passing it across.
Uncertain what was expected of him, Hamish held the photograph to the light. It was of a couple he had never seen. An older, bewhiskered gentleman, and a girl of perhaps sixteen, for she was still in short skirts and her hair was braided.
He squinted, for the shadow of the photograph made it difficult to discern her features properly; however, the strong resemblance made him ask, “Is this Lady Bradden as a girl? With her father, perhaps?” He could see the shape of her jaw was the same, as was the set of her eyes.
“This is Lord Lambton’s late daughter, Miss Cassandra.”
Hamish gave a start. “Lord Lambton’s daughter?” She was, of course, the woman whom Lily was supposedly speaking to, from ‘the other side’.
Sir Lionel considered Hamish’s obvious surprise. “You knew her?”
