But she was fifty-three. Merely naming it hurt.
“I suppose it has to be Devlin O’Neil,” he said, looking up at her at last. “Unless it is someone we know nothing about. I don’t suppose it is even imaginable that his wife knew he intended leaving her for Tamar, and employed someone to kill him.” A bitter humor lit his eyes for an instant, and then changed to pity. “That is, of course, if he really did mean to leave her. I don’t think he had much money of his own, and he would have given up a very comfortable life, and all social reputation. I’ve never told Tamar, but I think honestly it was unlikely he would have done such a thing. He probably told her he would because he really loved her, and couldn’t bear to lose her, so he lied, hoping to keep it going as long as he could. But we’ll never know.”
She chose deliberately to ask the most painful question. It was there in her mind, and it would get all the blows dealt at one time.
“And would she have married him? Isn’t she Jewish? What about her faith, marrying outside her own people?” She hated the words even as she heard herself saying them.
“Not desirable,” he admitted, meeting her eyes very directly. “But we are not very strict. She would have done it.”
“And her brother did not mind?” She pushed it to the sticking point.
“Aaron?” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “He wasn’t pleased. And of course Passmore wouldn’t have been pleased either, if she had given up the stage and become a respectable matron—or perhaps respectable would have been impossible, since Blaine would have left his wife for her—but at least quietly domestic, raising a family. She is the best actress on the London stage at the moment—with the possible exception of Bernhardt.”
“So he would have wished Blaine … elsewhere?”
He smiled broadly. “Certainly, had he known about it. But he didn’t. He thought Blaine was just one more stage door johnnie. They were pretty discreet. And she did have other admirers, you know.”
“Yes, of course. I suppose it is natural.” Unconsciously she smoothed down her skirt.
“Very.”
“Then it comes back to Devlin O’Neil,” she said decisively. “We must make his acquaintance and learn all we can about him. If we cannot prove Aaron’s innocence, then we must prove someone else’s guilt.”
His admiration was undisguised. “How wonderfully obvious! We have spent five years trying to show Aaron did not do it; we should have tried harder to show that someone else did. But we didn’t have the necessary skills.” He relaxed a little farther into the chair. “And of course O’Neil was not exactly well disposed towards us, nor ignorant of our interest.”
“Of course not. But he does not know me, nor my daughter, who is quite practiced in these things.”
“Is she? What a remarkable family you are. I shall never judge people so hastily again. You seem so utterly respectable. I apologize!” He laughed very lightly. “I supposed that you spent your mornings visiting dressmakers and milliners, writing beautiful letters to friends in the country, and ordering your households. And in the afternoons you would call upon acquaintances, or receive them, taking tea and cucumber sandwiches cut by your cook, and doing good works for the less fortunate, or stitching fine embroidery. I pictured your evenings at the very best social functions, or sitting by the fire reading improving books and holding suitable conversations—uplifting to the mind. I am truly sorry; I eat the bread of humility.” The laughter was vivid in his face. “I was never so mistaken! Women are the most mystifying creatures, so often not at all what they seem. All the time you were out detecting fearful crimes and unearthing desperate secrets.”
Caroline felt the color flooding up her cheeks, but she lied in her teeth.
“We should not succeed if we were open in the matter,” she said with a catch in her voice and a fluttering in her stomach. “The art of detection lies in appearing quite harmless.”
“Does it?” he said curiously. “We have been so singularly unsuccessful, perhaps that was one of our problems? We tried to appear too clever.”
“Well, you were hopelessly handicapped by the fact that everyone had to realize your interest in the affair,” she pointed out. “Tell me, what was Aaron like? And what about Kingsley Blaine?”
For half an hour he told her of the two men, both of whom he had known and liked. He recounted anecdotes with gentleness and laughter, but all the time she was acutely aware that they were both dead, and their youth, their hopes and their weaknesses ended. He spoke softly, his voice holding the words with regret, as if they were more than mere memories. There was an emotion in him that made her wish both to laugh with him and to cry.
“You would have liked Aaron,” he said with certainty. It was a compliment, and she found herself warming with pleasure. He said it not because Aaron Godman was so obviously charming a person, but because he had liked him himself, and he could not conceive of her being blind to the qualities which were so apparent to him. “He was one of the most generous people I ever knew. He was happy for other people’s success.” He pulled a little face. “That’s one of the hardest things to do, but it came to him naturally. And he could be terribly funny.” His face softened at the memory, then suddenly the sadness was so sharp it was close to tears. “I don’t seem to have laughed the same way since he went.”
“And Kingsley Blaine?” she said gently, longing to comfort him, and knowing it was impossible.
“Oh—he was a decent enough fellow. A dreamer, not much of a realist. He loved the theater, loved the imagination of it. He had no patience with the craft. But he was generous too. Never held a grudge. Forgave so easily.” He bit his lip. “That’s the worst part of it, the stupidest. They liked each other. They had so much in common it was easy.” He looked at her, silently, full of apology for the emotion.
She smiled back at him and there was total ease between them, no need of explanation.
The sunlight filled the room in a brief blaze, and then clouded over.
It was past time for luncheon, and she had not even thought of it, when Charlotte knocked on the door and reminded her of the present, and their role as visitors who must rise, bid farewell, and take their departure out into the busy, noisy street with all its urgent clatter.
“I suppose you have been out chasing after those theater people again!” Grandmama said as soon as Caroline was in the hallway. The old lady was standing in the entrance to the withdrawing room, having heard the carriage draw up. She was leaning heavily on her stick and her face was sour with curiosity and disapproval. “No good, any of them—immoral, dissolute and hopelessly vulgar!”
“Oh, I do wish sometimes you would hold your tongue,” Caroline said abruptly, handing her cape to the maid. “You know nothing about it whatsoever. Go back to the withdrawing room and read a book. Have a crumpet. Write to a friend.”
“My eyes are too weak to read. It is only two o’clock, and far too early to eat crumpets. And all my friends are dead,” the old lady said viciously. “And my daughter-in-law is making a complete fool of herself, to my everlasting shame!”
“You have enough follies of your own to be ashamed about,” Caroline replied briskly, for once not caring a jot what the old lady thought. “You don’t need to concern yourself with mine!”
“Caroline!” The old lady glared after her as she swept across the hall and up the stairs. “Caroline! Come back here at once! Don’t you dare speak to me like that! I don’t know what’s come over you!” She stood watching Caroline’s straight back and erect head retreating up the stairs—and swore.