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Callandra! She might know something, and there was no better person to ask. It would mean telling her that Sir Herbert was guilty, and how they knew, but there was no time or opportunity to ask Rathbone’s permission. He had told Monk because Monk was his employee in this case, and bound by the same rules of confidentiality. Callandra was not. But that was a nicety Monk did not give a damn about. Sir Herbert could complain from the gallows steps!
It was late when Monk delivered his news, after six in the evening.
Callandra was horrified when the full impact struck her of what he had said. He had left with what little advice she could give, his face pale and set in an expression which frightened her. Now she was alone in her comfortable room lit by the fading sun, with a dark weight of knowledge. A week ago it would have made her heart sing, simply with the sheer certainty that Kristian was not guilty of Prudence’s death. Now all she could think of was that Sir Herbert would almost certainly walk free—and more oppressive yet, of the pain that hung over Lady Stanhope, a new grief which she must face. Whether she would ever know that Sir Herbert was guilty of murder, Callandra could only guess, probably not. But she must be told that her eldest son had been the father of Victoria’s aborted child. The act of incest was not often a sole event. Her other daughters stood in danger of the same crippling tragedy.
There was no way to ease the telling, nothing Callandra could think of or imagine which would make it bearable. And there was no point in sitting here in her soft chair amid the bowls of flowers and the books and cushions, the cats asleep in the sun and the dog looking at her hopefully with one eye, in case she should decide to walk.
She rose and went to the hall, calling for the butler and the footman. She would take the carriage to Lady Stanhope’s house now. It was an uncivil time for calling, and it was unlikely Lady Stanhope was receiving visitors in the circumstances anyway, but she was prepared to force the issue if that was necessary. She was wearing a very simple afternoon dress, fashionable two years ago, and it did not occur to her to change.
She rode in the carriage deep in thought, and was startled to be told she had arrived. She instructed the coachman to wait, alighted without assistance, and went straight to the front door. It was handsome, discreet, speaking of a great deal of money. She noted it absently, aware with bitterness that Sir Herbert would keep all this, probably even with his reputation little damaged. It gave her no satisfaction that his personal life would be scarred forever. All her thoughts were filled with the pain she was about to inflict upon his wife.
She rang the bell, and it was answered by a footman. Perhaps in these anguished times the women were being kept in the rear of the house. It might be deemed better for a man to deal with the curious and tasteless who might call.
“Yes ma’am?” he said guardedly.
“Lady Callandra Daviot,” Callandra said briskly, passing him her card. “I have a matter of extreme urgency to discuss with Lady Stanhope, and I regret it cannot wait until a more fortunate time. Will you inform her that I am here.” It was an order, not a question.
“Certainly ma’am,” he replied stiffly, taking the card without reading it. “But Lady Stanhope is not receiving at present.”
“This is not a social call,” Callandra replied. “It is a matter of medical emergency.”
“Is—is Sir Herbert ill?” The man’s face paled.
“Not so far as I am aware.”
He hesitated, in spite of experience, uncertain what best to do. Then he met her eyes; something in him recognized power and authority and a strength of will which would not be overridden or gainsaid.
“Yes, ma’am. If you would be good enough to wait in the morning room.” He opened the door wider to allow her in, and then showed her to a very formal room, at present devoid of flowers and bleak in its sense of being unused. It was like a house in mourning.
Philomena Stanhope came after only a few moments, looking pinched and anxious. She regarded Callandra without apparent recognition. Society had never meant anything to her, and the hospital was only a place where her husband worked. Callandra was touched by pity for the ruinous disillusion she was about to inflict on her. Her comfortable family and home were about to be ripped apart.
“Lady Callandra?” Philomena said questioningly. “My footman says you have some news for me.”
“I am afraid I have. I profoundly regret it, but further tragedy may occur if I do not.”
Philomena remained standing, her face even paler.
“What is it?” She was so shaken already that the rules of etiquette were totally ignored. This was in a way worse than death. Death was expected, and there were procedures to follow; whatever the grief, one knew what to do. And death visited all households; there was no shame or peculiarity about it. “What has happened?”
“It is not a simple thing to tell,” Callandra replied. “I should prefer to do so seated.” She was about to add that it would be easier, but the words were absurd. Nothing could make this easier.
Philomena remained where she was. “Please tell me what has happened, Lady Callandra.”
“Nothing new has happened. It is simply knowledge of old sins and sadness which must be known in order to prevent them happening again.”
“To whom?”
Callandra took a breath. This was every bit as painful as she had foreseen—perhaps even worse.
“To your children, Lady Stanhope.”
“My children?” There was no real alarm in her, only disbelief. “What have my children to do with this—this ordeal? And what can you possibly know about it?”
“I am one of the governors of the Royal Free Hospital,” Callandra replied, sitting down, whether Philomena chose to or not. “Your daughter Victoria consulted a surgeon there some time ago, when she first knew she was with child.”
Philomena was very pale, but she kept her composure and she did not sit down.
“Indeed? I did not know that, but it does not seem to me to be of importance now. Unless—unless you are saying that it was he who marred her?”
