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Wharmby straightened himself, but he looked very pallid. “Certainly not! Whatever next? It is my duty to look after poor Mrs. Duff in every way possible, as it is yours. Go and get Alfred to fetch Dr. Wade. I shall inform Madam that there is someone to see her. You might return with a decanter of brandy … just in case some restorative is needed.”
But it was not. Sylvestra Duff sat motionless in the large chair in the morning room, her face bloodlessly white under her dark hair with its pronounced widow’s peak. She was not immediately beautiful—her face was too long, too aquiline, her nose delicately flared, her eyes almost black—but she had a distinction which became more marked the longer one was with her. Her voice was low and very measured. In other circumstances it would have been lovely. Now she was too shattered by horror and grief to speak in anything but broken fractions of sentences.
“How …” she started. “Where? Where did you say?”
“In one of the back streets of an area known as St. Giles,” Evan answered gently, moderating the truth a little. He wished there were some way she would never have to know the full facts.
“St. Giles?” It seemed to mean very little to her. He studied her face, the smooth, high-boned cheeks and curved brow. He thought he saw a slight tightening, but it could have been no more than a change in the light as she turned towards him.
“It is a few hundred yards off Regent Street, towards Aldgate.”
“Aldgate?” she said with a frown.
“Where did he say he was going, Mrs. Duff?” he asked.
“He didn’t say.”
“Perhaps you would tell me all you can recall of yesterday.”
She shook her head very slowly. “No … no, that can wait. First I must go to my son. I must … I must be with him. You said he is very badly hurt?”
“I am afraid so. But he is in the best hands possible.” He leaned a little towards her. “You can do no more for him at present,” he said earnestly. “It is best he rests. He is not fully sensible most of the time. No doubt the doctor will give him herbs and sedatives to ease his pain and help him to heal.”
“Are you trying to spare my feelings, Sergeant? I assure you, it is not necessary. I must be where I can do the most good, that is the only thing which will be of any comfort to me.” She looked at him very directly. She had amazing eyes; their darkness almost concealed her emotions and made her a peculiarly private woman. He imagined the great Spanish aristocrats might have looked something like that: proud, secretive, hiding their vulnerability.
“No, Mrs. Duff,” he said. “I was trying to find out as much as I can from you about what occurred yesterday while it is fresh in your mind, before you are fully occupied with your son. At the moment it is Dr. Riley’s help he needs. I need yours.”
“You are very direct, Sergeant.”
He did not know if it was a criticism or simply an observation. Her voice was without expression. She was too profoundly shocked from the reality of what he had told her to touch anything but the surface of her mind. She sat upright, her back rigid, shoulders stiff, her hands unmoving in her lap. He imagined if he touched them he would find them locked together, unbending.
“I am sorry. It seems not the time for niceties. This matters far too much. Did your husband and son leave the house together?”
“No. No … Rhys left first. I did not see him go.”
“And your husband?”
“Yes … yes, I saw him leave. Of course.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“No … no. He quite often went out in the evening … to his club. It is a very usual thing for a gentleman to do. Business, as well as pleasure, depend
s upon social acquaintances. He did not say … specifically.”
He was not sure why, but he did not entirely believe her. Was it possible she was aware that her husband had frequented certain dubious places, perhaps even that he’d used prostitutes? Such behavior was tacitly accepted by many wives, even though they would have been shocked if anyone had been vulgar and insensitive enough to speak it. Everyone was aware of bodily functions. No one referred to them; it was both indelicate and unnecessary.
“How was he dressed, ma’am?”
Her arched eyebrows rose. “Dressed? Presumably as you found him, Sergeant. What do you mean?”
“Did he have a watch, Mrs. Duff?”
“A watch? Yes. Oh, I see. He was … robbed. Yes, he had a very fine gold watch. It was not on him?”
“No. Was he in the habit of carrying much money with him?”
“I don’t know. I can ask Bridlaw, his valet. He could probably tell you. Does it matter?”
