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"You what?"
"Are you hard of hearing? I met him in Scutari!" She remembered the general's patronizing manner and all her memories of condescension flooded back, the army officers who considered women out of place, ornaments to be used for recreation or comfort but not creatures of any sense. Gentlewomen were for cossetting, dominating and protecting from everything, including adventure or decision or freedom of any kind. Common women were whores or drudges and to be used like any other livestock.
"Oh yes," he agreed with a frown. "He was injured. Were you out there with your husband?''
"No I was not!" Why should that question be faintly hurtful? "I went to nurse the injured, to assist Miss Nightingale, and those like her."
His face did not show the admiration and profound sense of respect close to awe that the name usually brought. She was thrown off balance by it. He seemed to be single-minded in his interest in Joscelin Grey.
"You nursed Major Grey?"
"Among others. Do you mind if we proceed to walk? I am getting cold standing here."
"Of course." He turned and fell into step with her and they began along the faint track in the grass towards a copse of oaks. "What were your impressions of him?"
She tried hard to distinguish her memory from the picture she had gathered from his family's words, Rosamond's weeping, Fabia's pride and love, the void he had left in her happiness, perhaps Rosamond's also, his brothers' mixture of exasperation and—what—envy?
"I can recall his leg rather better than his face," she said frankly.
He stared at her with temper rising sharply in his face.
"I am not interested in your female fantasies, madame, or your peculiar sense of humor! This is an investigation into an unusually brutal murder!"
She lost her temper completely.
"You incompetent idiot!" she shouted into the wind. "You grubby-minded, fatuous nincompoop. I was nursing him. I dressed and cleaned his wound—which, in case you have forgotten, was in his leg. His face was uninjured, therefore I did not regard it any more than the faces of the other ten thousand injured and dead I saw. I would not know him again if he came up and spoke to me."
His face was bleak and furious. "It would be a memorable occasion, madame. He is eight weeks dead—and beaten to a pulp."
If he had hoped to shock her he failed.
She swallowed hard and held his eyes. "Sounds like the battlefield after Inkermann," she said levelly. "Only there at least we knew what had happened to them—even if no one had any idea why.''
“We know what happened to Joscelin Grey—we do not know who did it. Fortunately I am not responsible for explaining the Crimean War—only Joscelin Grey's death."
"Which seems to be beyond you," she said unkindly. "And I can be of no assistance. All I can remember is that he was unusually agreeable, that he bore his injury with as much fortitude as most, and that when he was recovering he spent quite a lot of his time moving from bed to bed encouraging and cheering other men, particularly those closest to death. In fact when I think of it, he was a most admirable man. I had forgotten that until now. He comforted many who were dying, and wrote letters home for them, told their families of their deaths and probably gave them much ease in their distress. It is very hard that he should survive that, and come home to be murdered here."
"He was killed very violently—there was a passion of hatred in the way he was beaten.'' He was looking at her closely and she was startled by the intelligence in his face; it was uncomfortably intense, and unexpected. "I believe it was someone who knew him. One does not hate a stranger as he was hated.''
She shivered. Horrific as was the battlefield, there was still a world of difference between its mindless carnage
and the acutely personal malevolence of Joscelin Grey's death.
"I am sorry," she said more gently, but still with the stiffness he engendered in her. "I know nothing of him that would help you find such a relationship. If I did I should tell you. The hospital kept records; you would be able to find out who else was there at the same time, but no doubt you have already done that—" She saw instantly from the shadow in his face that he had not. Her patience broke. “Then for heaven's sake, what have you been doing for eight weeks?"
"For five of them I was lying injured myself," he snapped back. "Or recovering. You make far too many assumptions, madame. You are arrogant, domineering, ill-tempered and condescending. And you leap to conclusions for which you have no foundation. God! I hate clever women!"
She froze for an instant before the reply was on her lips.
"I love clever men!" Her eyes raked him up and down. "It seems we are both to be disappointed." And with that she picked up her skirts and strode past him and along the path towards the copse, tripping over a bramble across her way. "Drat,"'she swore furiously. "Hellfire."
7
“Good morning, Miss Latterly," Fabia said coolly when she came into the sitting room at about quarter past ten the following day. She looked smart and fragile and was already dressed as if to go out. She eye
d Hester very briefly, noting her extremely plain muslin gown, and then turned to Rosamond, who was sitting poking apologetically at an embroidery frame. "Good morning, Rosamond. I hope you are well? It is a most pleasant day, and I believe we should take the opportunity to visit some of the less fortunate in the village. We have not been lately, and it is your duty, my dear, even more than it is mine."
The color deepened a trifle in Rosamond's cheeks as she accepted the rebuke. From the quick lift in her chin Hester thought there might be far more behind the motion than was apparent. The family was in mourning, and Fabia had quite obviously felt the loss most keenly, at least to the outward eye. Had Rosamond tried to resume life too quickly for her, and this was Fabia's way of choosing the time?
