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To what purpose? Graves had nothing to gain in sending Daniel on a fool’s errand. But perhaps he had nothing to lose, either. Would he rather have Daniel think he was a threat to some traitor than guilty of a sordid domestic murder over jealousy, humiliation, or greed? That was believable, too. Perhaps Ebony had mocked him, and his pride had led him to such hatred that he had killed her, and he had to destroy the beautiful face that had made a fool of him?
It sounded more likely than his writing an exposé of some famous figure whom he had previously suspected of . . . what? An unknown treason?
He passed a fairly large bookshop and decided to go in and enquire about Gra
ves’ work.
‘Yes, sir, may I help you?’ the elderly gentleman at the counter asked him.
‘Thank you. I have had a certain author recommended to me, and I wondered whether you carried any of his work, and would advise me where to begin.’
‘If you will tell me the name of the author, sir . . .?’
‘Yes. Russell Graves. I believe he is a biographer of some note.’
‘Oh dear.’ The man’s face assumed an expression of piety. ‘I dare say you have not heard. I’m afraid he has met with . . . a catastrophe.’
‘Yes. I had heard. But he will perhaps appeal. And it does not alter his work. I am told he gets very much to grips with his subjects.’
‘His research is exhaustive. Personally, sir, I prefer to leave my heroes their privacy. We are all weak at times, and I dare say there is no one who could stand the closest scrutiny. But I believe his biography of the Duke of Wellington was less scathing than some, and told us a few incidents that are little known, particularly of his political career, long after the Peninsula War or Waterloo. I can see if have a copy, if you like. We have sold one or two of his works lately, but I may have one left.’
Daniel had no money to spend on rare and expensive books he was not going to read, certainly not in the next nineteen days. ‘No thank you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I’d like something more contemporary. If I change my mind, I shall return.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the man nodded, understanding exactly what Daniel meant.
Daniel checked in with fford Croft, and told him of his progress, or lack of it, but that he had a line of enquiry to follow. Apparently, Kitteridge had not yet discovered anything worthy of comment. That was no surprise. There probably was not anything to find – it was simply obligatory to try.
In the middle of the afternoon, Daniel went to see Mercy Blackwell. He had no idea whether she would welcome him or not. He had been to her house before, when consulting her regarding Roman’s trial, and during the struggle to find any proof of his innocence. She knew perfectly well that Roman had lied about many things, but she also knew exactly when he was lying and when he was telling the truth. Daniel wondered if Roman was aware of quite how little he ever fooled her. He thought not. But it was a totally comfortable relationship, of that he was certain. There was a warmth in it, a natural friendship of two people who understood each other very well and, beneath any squabbling on the surface, held exactly the same values as to the kind of honesty that was important, and the jokes that were trivial. Above all they held a loyalty to each other that had no price.
Daniel had also been certain that Mercy was one of the most vividly alive people he had ever known, and that her son’s death would have robbed her of all heart. For him to be hanged might even have taken from her the will to live.
If he had not seen her vulnerability also, he would have been a little afraid of her. As it was, he had no hesitation presenting himself at her door early in the afternoon. He thought it was a time when she would be there, although he was prepared to wait as long as necessary, should she be out. He had to find out more about Ebony Graves, and not from her family, who may have actually known her less than anyone else.
The house was on a quiet street in Pimlico, and from the outside it looked ordinary enough. He ascended the steps and knocked on the front door. He would not have been surprised if there were no answer, but he realised how disappointed he would be.
Silence.
He knocked again.
This time, the door opened almost immediately. Mercy stood in the hallway. She was completely different from the exhausted woman he had seen the day the trial finished. Today, she radiated energy. The pallor was gone from her skin, and there was vitality in every aspect of her. She was quite small, a couple of inches over five foot, at least a foot shorter than Daniel, yet she carried her head so high that from a distance you would have sworn she was statuesque. Her magnificent hair was coiled on top of her head, giving her another two inches. Roman had told him that when it was loose, it was long enough that she could sit on it, and all shining black, except for the white streak in front.
‘Well!’ she said with pleasure. ‘I did not expect to see you so soon. Are you in trouble?’
Daniel wondered if something were emanating from him, like an aura she could see, or if she felt he would not have come otherwise. He smiled, and stepped into the hallway. It was exactly as he remembered it. There were large mirrors, so placed as to make the space seem far bigger than it was. There appeared to be too many doors. He could see a dozen pictures, yet he knew there were only five. Two hat racks held an enormous number of hats, not obvious reflections of one another, because they looked more varied seen from different sides. Some brims were at unusual angles, some had feathers, others had flowers. All were in jewel colours.
Daniel found himself smiling. This house always affected him that way. It was an exercise in the art of illusion – or, as he preferred to think of it, as dreams, extensions of reality.
‘Yes, I am in trouble,’ he said, and the admission made the reality so much easier to cope with. ‘I have a case much more complicated than your son’s, because I don’t know if the man is guilty or not.’
‘But you are defending him?’ She turned and led the way to one of the rooms off the hall.
‘No, not really.’ He followed her into the room, which was also familiar. For once he was not interested in the wild collection of things in it. Nothing matched, but because there was no pattern, there was no sense of dissimilarities either. At least there was none to him. He knew that each piece had history and represented some friendship or adventure. She had kept many memories sharp by having around her a Chinese screen exquisitely painted, next to a Persian hookah complete with pipes and a delicately carved glass bowl. It was easy to imagine dreams while seeing the painted birds on the porcelain dish on the wall, and half a dozen Delft figurines on the side tables.
‘He’s already been convicted. The head of my chambers is determined that we should appeal the verdict. I have nineteen days left,’ he told her.
She gestured for him to sit down in one of the plush-covered chairs, and she took the other. They were not a pair, but the rich colours complemented each other surprisingly well. How could anyone have foreseen that crimson and plum would do anything but jar the senses, or that a purple cushion would make it seem natural? The sheer unlikelihood of the room pleased him.
‘I need to know more about the victim,’ he said, without waiting for her to ask. ‘I think you may be able to find out, or actually already know. Her name was Ebony Graves.’ He saw the immediate sorrow in Mercy’s eyes. ‘You knew her,’ he said.
