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And yet he also knew her so little. He knew what she dreamed of and could not have, because she was a woman. He had no idea what she wanted and could have, or at least aspire to, whether she had ever fallen in love or wanted to marry. Had she wanted to have children, but left it too late? Or loved someone not free to marry her? Was it a pain too deep to share with anyone? So much of what he knew was in the head. The heart was only guessed at.
It was she who broke the silence. “We may not learn anything.” She sounded as if it were an apology. “But I think Rebecca may be more at the center of this than we supposed,” she continued. “She knew Sidney and apparently liked him. If he took the pendant, then he must have been a pretty good rotter. But if he didn’t—if he was telling the truth, as far as he knew it, in all other things—then there are big pieces of this that we don’t know. And the person we know least about is the one whose death lies
at the beginning of this.”
“May?” he asked, forcing his mind to pay attention. “The Thorwoods already have very much more money than May Trelawny, and Rebecca is the only heir to both, or should I say all three of them,” he replied. “Presumably, if her father dies first, her mother will be provided for. And I didn’t have the impression from Jemima that Rebecca cares about money anyway. I suppose she has never had to.”
“Possibly it is something to do with this house in Alderney,” Miriam suggested. “Or maybe something happened there that matters.” She did not offer any suggestion as to what that might be.
For another little while they drove in silence through Guildford, and then through the lush countryside toward Haslemere. They spoke of other things: books, ideas, current politics. She supported the King, but without much enthusiasm. His odd mixture of personality did not please her, although she granted his talents. She was troubled by his frequent travels to visit his cousin the Kaiser of Germany, and by the increasingly difficult political situation there—and incidentally the rising power of the German Navy. Daniel’s father would have agreed with her on that.
“England is stuck in a historical time lock,” she said, with an edge of either fear or anger in her voice—he was not sure which. She was staring at the road along which they were still traveling at higher speed than when they had begun. The last thing he wanted was to distract her attention, and yet he wondered what she meant. He had to ask. “If not in the present, where are we?”
“A hundred years ago,” she answered without hesitation. “Only fifty militarily, with the Crimean War, perhaps. But as far as the navy is concerned, we still think we have mastery over the oceans of the world, as if Nelson were only just dead, as if unaware of the new developments the Germans are making with their submarines.”
He realized she was afraid. His instinct was to reach out and touch her, as he would have Jemima. He even began to, then saw that the gesture would be far too familiar. Even condescending, although he did not mean it to be. “Do you think the growing naval strength of Germany has anything to do with this? With Sidney? Could he have known something?” The instant the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. It was a silly idea, but he could not take it back.
She turned to look at him for a moment, then back at the road. She did not see his white knuckles as he held on to the dashboard while she swept over the crown of a hill and the great panorama of the land opened up before their eyes: rich harvest fields, clumps of trees, villages marked by towering church spires, and beyond them all, the gleam of the light on far distant water.
“Perhaps,” she replied to the question. “Whatever it is, we’ve missed it so far. That light over there, that’s the sea.” She was smiling. She did not look at him, but kept her eyes straight ahead.
Daniel could not think of the right words to say, so he remained silent.
They came over the rise, and the deep blue of the sea filled the horizon, dotted here and there with little boats, white sails dazzling against the water. Already the sun was lower, the air tinted with color.
She drove down into Portsmouth and toward the dockyard. The town of Portsmouth was a naval port, with the dockyard home to many classic ships from the great naval history of the nation. But it was also a busy working dock of the present, with cargoes from every country in the world.
They parked the car in a secure place near the terminal and went to the pier to purchase tickets for the ferry to Cherbourg. It turned out they had only twenty minutes to wait until boarding.
The wind was cooling a little, although the sea was calm and the gulls circling above them moved on the currents of the air, the low sun catching them white and gleaming. Miriam watched them, clearly fascinated. Daniel stood on the wooden pier, smelling the tide, hearing it lap against the stanchions below them, and wondered what she was thinking. Scientific thoughts about the dynamics of flight? Or dreams of a world of light and air? He did not ask, because he realized how much he hoped it was the latter.
It was quite a short journey, so there was no luxury on board the ferry, but it was pleasant enough. The seats were comfortable, and Daniel and Miriam sat side by side, facing forward.
They talked of many things during the sea crossing, but they also sat silently, confident to rest in their own thoughts. Daniel would have liked to let his mind wander, but time was too short. He rehearsed over and over again every step of the case, using alternative interpretations of facts.
If Sidney was not guilty, then who was? And what motive had they? Every step must fit the explanation. Was it very carefully planned, each move forming part of it from the outset, every alternative planned for? Or was it a series of accidents, new plans made even while changing course? Was the person behind it brilliantly clever, or just lucky, time and time again?
Was the motive idealistic, if misguided? Or was it greed? Or a way to save themselves, or someone they cared for, or someone necessary to them for…what?
How much was it going to hurt when they knew the truth? If they ever did. He realized how much he was afraid for Jemima. Was Patrick’s part in it going to stain her world irreparably? And would she hate Daniel for being the one to expose it? That tempted him to let it go. It would be easy not to find the answer. He might not be able to find it anyway. Yet how often had he condemned other people for doing exactly that? But who, apart from himself, would know if he had not looked? If Jemima ever found out, she would know it was because he was afraid of what he would find…which could only be that Patrick was guilty of playing some part in the involvement of the Thorwoods in Philip Sidney’s downfall. Could it possibly be unwitting? He doubted it. Patrick appeared very direct, open. But then he would—he was with his wife’s family. And he was very much in love with Jemima. Anyone could see that. But it did not mean there was not a complex and clever man behind the smile and the humor, the will to please.
And if Daniel willingly looked away, his father would know and despise him. He would have betrayed Pitt’s trust and, if he were to succeed in anything, the trust he must have in himself.
They disembarked at Cherbourg and went straight to the Alderney ferry. There was little time to spare since they were timed to coincide.
The second journey was only a few miles.
The ferry docked and Daniel and Miriam disembarked, Daniel carrying their small bags, and they walked in the summer darkness up the slight hill to the little town of St. Anne. The whole isle of Alderney was only three miles long and one and a half miles wide.
They had come without booking any accommodations in advance. There had been no time. They would have to trust their luck in finding a hotel. It was August, the best month for holidays. The hotels might well all be full.
“Well, May Trelawny’s house will be empty,” Miriam said with a wry smile when Daniel said this. She did not apologize for the oversight and the assumption that he would not mind, but he thought from her slight hesitation that she had considered whether she should and had deliberately not done so.
“She’s been dead over a month,” he pointed out, smiling back, although she would see little of his face in the soft darkness. “It would be warm enough, this time of year, but there won’t be any food, and there may not be any sheets or blankets.” He deliberately avoided mentioning any of the other possible inconveniences, or the awkwardness of doing so much together and yet in most ways being so far apart. “And how do you intend we get in? It’s breaking and entering.”
“Yes, I realize that,” Miriam admitted, “and I’m not happy about it, but what else can we do? Daniel, we need to get into the house. I really believe the answer lies with May Trelawny’s death.”
“I know,” he said gently, then smiled. “Luckily, I can pick locks.”
