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“Of course!” Patrick said more gently. “Apart from the fact that I would not put you in any danger, if it couldn’t be within the law, it wouldn’t stick. He’d appeal, and we’d lose more than the case. I wouldn’t do that to you, or to myself.”
Daniel was glad it was nearly dark now. The sun had sunk into the scarlet bank of cloud on the horizon and the garden was rapidly filling with shadows. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested. “It’s going to get cold soon.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT MORNING, before going in to fford Croft and Gibson, Daniel went to see Roman Blackwell. He was a man who enjoyed his food, and for him breakfast was the prince of meals. Daniel found him still at home, at the kitchen table, surrounded by the smells of broiling kippers, fresh toast, and newly brewed tea—more delicate, but still pervasive.
A maid led Daniel in, and Blackwell waved a hand toward the other chair. “Kipper?” he offered. And before Daniel could answer, he raised his voice. “Mercy! Any more kippers?”
She appeared out of the larder doorway. “Don’t shout! I can hear you perfectly well. I knew it had to be Daniel at this hour. Good morning, Daniel. A kipper?” she offered. “It says on the label they’re Craster, but that’s as may be.”
Craster kippers, from the coast of Northumberland, were considered the best, and Daniel knew it. They were probably also the most expensive. They would have been sent down to London on the night train, and Mercy would have gone out very early indeed to get them before they sold out.
“I’ve already had breakfast,” he replied. “But thank you.” And then he paused, subtly indicating that perhaps he would be persuaded.
“Then I’ll cook this one for you. You’ll need it, for what he’s going to tell you.” She gestured toward Roman.
Daniel turned, waiting with a sense of chill for what Blackwell would say. Was Patrick’s information false, and Blackwell knew it already?
Blackwell looked at the stove, with the kipper simmering on it. “I looked for your fellow, Philip Sidney,” he said. “For heaven’s sake, sit down! Your kipper will take a while to cook. Have some toast. And marmalade. Or blackcurrant jam. Mercy made it.”
Daniel forced himself to accept, if only for the sake of good manners. If it was homemade, he would eat it. “What about Sidney?” he asked. “I found out only yesterday evening that he’s been arrested for embezzlement.”
“Ah.” Blackwell let out his breath slowly. “I have heard that, too. And learned quite a bit more as well. Philip Sidney—born twenty-nine years ago. Father Wallace Sidney. Got a bit of money, nothing special. Self-righteous man. Not very pleasant. Best thing he did was die young. Left a widow and one son, Philip. So named by his mother, a gentle creature, idealistic. Lover of history, and named her son after the Elizabethan hero Sir Philip Sidney. You probably know about him?” Blackwell eyed him curiously.
“Yes,” Daniel agreed. “Presumably she told him all the stories?”
“Yes. She had great dreams for him.” Blackwell’s face was twisted with pity, plus resentment at having to tell Daniel something he would clearly rather not know. “She married again. Case of necessity, really. The new husband was a miserable beggar. Not literally, of course. Rather well-to-do. No style or grace, though; considerable sacrifice on her part, I should think. But he educated the boy well, along with his own sons. Young Philip came off second-best in most things, it would appear, except cards. Very good at that. Could thrash them at that. He was a damn sight better-looking than his stepbrothers, and cleverer. Forced to hide his light under a bushel, so to speak, for the sake of his mother’s survival. Caught in a cleft stick! Justify her faith in him, and outshine his stepbrothers, and lose the stepfather’s goodwill! Or dim his light a bit and stay in the family fold.”
“I see…” Daniel said quietly.
“No, you don’t!” Blackwell contradicted him immediately. “You’ve never had to protect your mother from anything. I’ve met her. Formidable lady. You can only imagine what it would be like to have to hide your light so your father doesn’t humiliate her. And your imagination hasn’t been stretched to that—anything like.”
“Does that have any bearing on the case?” Daniel asked.
“Can’t see any,” Blackwell admitted. “Except that Sidney is a good-looking, intelligent man who has had to watch his step pretty much all his life. He had an idealistic mother who was prepared to sacrifice her own happiness to give him the best start she could. Thank God, she’s gone now, and whatever happens with this, she won’t see it.” His face reflected
his emotions completely. “Stepfather’s gone. Good riddance. Sidney doesn’t keep up with the stepbrothers. They’re not in the diplomatic service. Trade. Money. Something like that. Three of them. Sidney’s well liked. Worked particularly with a fellow called Armitage at the British Embassy in Washington. Apparently Armitage speaks well of him. It was he who got Sidney out before the scandal in Washington could reach really high proportions.”
“What about the embezzlement?” Daniel asked. “Sidney must have had limited means. Don’t suppose his stepfather was generous to him?”
“No, he wasn’t. Mean as dirt. Nor to the stepbrothers either, as far as I can tell. But Sidney’s used to living within moderate means, and I found no trace of debt to anyone. Still good at the cards, drinks only in moderation. I’ll look further. How much longer have we got before the embezzlement trial?”
“I don’t know,” Daniel admitted. “But very little time, I think. The Thorwoods are in Britain settling up the aunt’s estate, but that won’t take long. I daresay they’ll push with all their diplomatic power to get it heard soon. And I believe they have both money and reputation.”
“And this brother-in-law of yours?”
“Four weeks altogether, unless there’s a reason why the Washington police will let him stay longer…”
The kippers were ready, but Daniel found that he had lost his taste for them. He did not want any part of this case, either to prosecute Sidney or to defend him. It was painful to see the pattern of someone’s life and the collapse of it, whoever’s fault it was. Sometimes it was a fight for justice. Sometimes it was just a plain tragedy. This looked like the latter. But he couldn’t let Patrick down now—or, more truthfully, Jemima, who would take Patrick’s side in everything, and who was a friend of Rebecca’s.
“Thank you,” he said for the kipper, wondering how he would be able to eat it.
CHAPTER
Five
