Nevinson was not an impostor. He was a real detective, here on official business.
And he was not lying to her.
As if to underscore that realization, Detective Nevinson repeated to Lord Vere, almost word for word, what he had told Elissande.
Her uncle, a murderer.
Her head exploded piece by tiny piece. It was not a terrible sensation: bizarre and disconcerting, but not terrible. There would be an awful scandal, there was no avoiding that. But what a tremendous silver lining. Her uncle had been arrested: He was in no position to compel Aunt Rachel to return to him now.
Moreover, once he was tried and convicted, he would rot in jail for a long, long time. Perhaps he would even hang. And Elissande and Aunt Rachel would be free, completely, gloriously free.
She barely heard her husband when he said, “But of course you and your men are welcome to search the manor from top to bottom. Is that all right with you, my dear?”
“Beg pardon?”
“That is the express purpose of Detective Nevinson’s visit. It is a courtesy on his part, as by now I believe he needs no permission from us to search Highgate Court.”
“Well, yes, of course. We shall cooperate fully.”
Nevinson thanked them and rose to leave.
She had to restrain herself from screaming in elation as she bade Nevinson good day. As soon as he left, she leaped high in the air, wrapped her husband in a hard embrace, then ran upstairs, tears streaming down her face, to inform her aunt of the news of their deliverance.
Stephen Delaney’s main area of scientific interest had indeed been the artificial synthesis of diamonds, as amply demonstrated by the box of documents Lord Yardley had sent to Holbrook—apparently the file Vere had read had been a mere extract.
While Vere had slept off the rum, Holbrook had cracked the code used in Douglas’s dossier. Last night, using Holbrook’s guide, Vere had deciphered pages in the dossier, the text of which was identical to that in Delaney’s spare laboratory notebook. (Apparently, Delaney had a system whereby he took his own notes in his primary notebook; then his assistant copied the notes and stored the duplicate notebook away from the laboratory for safekeeping.) So even though Douglas had stolen and, in all probability, subsequently destroyed Delaney’s primary notebook, the existence of the duplicate still clearly and powerfully connected Douglas’s dossier and Delaney’s research.
And even better: a note written in the margins of a page in Douglas’s dossier, which when deciphered read, Should not have done away with the bastard before I could reproduce his results.
Enough to arrest and charge Douglas. And enough, along with the ongoing investigation into his other crimes and strong pressure from Yardley—in response to Vere’s request—to hold Douglas without bail.
Vere was suddenly tired. It always came, this bone-deep weariness at the end of a case. But it seemed even more draining this time. Perhaps because above him his wife was literally jumping for joy, the impact of her landings reverberating through the ceiling.
Her purposes for this marriage had been served: She was safe and she was free, as was her aunt. He would let some more time elapse—for Douglas to be tried and convicted—and then he would demand an annulment.
It was still possible, or so he liked to think, to repair the damages she had wrought. When he’d had time and distance enough from her, her face and her smile would cease to intrude into his fantasies of tranquillity and peacefulness. Then, when he wanted simple companionship, he would have simple companionship, and all the easy comfort that came with it.
The emotions Lady Vere invoked were too dark, too sharp, too unnerving. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want the frustration, the lust, or the dangerous longings she incited. He wanted only for things to go back as they were, before their paths collided: an inner life that was soothing, consoling, placating, thickly buffered from the realities of his life.
Rather like Mrs. Douglas with her laudanum.
He poured himself two fingers of whiskey and downed it in a single gulp.
Upstairs she jumped again. No doubt she was laughing and crying at the same time, weightless with happiness and relief, her nightmare at last coming to an end.
His nightmares would just have to go on.
“Allow me to read you a passage from my diary, dated twelve April 1884,” said Angelica. She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘On the bank of the trout stream, I read and Freddie drew. Penny struck up a conversation with the vicar, who was out on a walk—something about the Gnostics and the Council of Nicaea.’”
She looked up. “My goodness, remember how learned Penny used to be?”
“I remember,” said Freddie.
But he never remembered it without an echo of sadness.
“At least he’s happily married now. His wife seems to find him nothing short of miraculous.”
“That does make me happy. I like the way she looks at him: There is so much that’s good and admirable in Penny.”
Angelica slid her finger along the edge of her leather-bound diary. “But?” she prompted him.
He smiled. She knew him too well. “I’ll admit I am a little envious. I used to think that if I ended up an old bachelor, at least I’d have Penny for company.”
“You can always have my company,” she said. “It would be like being children all over again, except with fewer teeth.”
He suddenly recalled an instance of fewer teeth. “Do you remember the time I accidentally broke my father’s favorite pair of spectacles?”
“Was that the time when I stole my mother’s specs to replace them and we were hoping he wouldn’t find out?”
“Yes, that was it. My mother and Penny were both away somewhere and I was scared out of my wits. And you suggested that we pull your loose teeth to keep my mind off the specs.”
“Really?” She chuckled. “I don’t remember that part at all.”
“Your new teeth had come out already. And your old teeth were so loose they were flapping about like a line of washing in the wind. Everyone was after you to get rid of the old teeth, but you were adamant that no one come near them.”
“My goodness. Now I remember a little. I used to sleep with a scarf over my mouth, so that my governess couldn’t have at them.”
“I was so surprised that you’d let me, I forgot all about the specs. We pulled out four of your teeth that afternoon.”
She bent over laughing.
“Listen, it gets better: My father dropped your mother’s specs and stepped on them before he could put them on and realize they were the wrong ones. It had to be one of the few times when my clumsiness didn’t get someone into trouble. The relief, my God.”
“Well, one thing is certain: I will not let you pull out any of my teeth when I’m a crone.”
He raised his coffee cup to her in salute. “Understood. All the same, I’d be thrilled to have your company when I’m a dotard.”
She returned his salute, her eyes sparkling, and he suddenly realized, for the very first time, how privileged he was to have known her his entire life. Sometimes one took the best things in one’s life for granted. He never fully understood how much he had wholeheartedly depended on Penny before Penny’s accident changed everything. And he’d never considered the central role Angelica’s friendship had played in his life, especially in those difficult, vulnerable years under his father—until now, when he was full of feelings that threatened to imperil that very friendship.
“Now, where were we?” She set down her coffee cup and found her place in the diary. “Here we go. ‘The old dear, evidently delighted with the discussion, invited all of us to the vicarage for tea.’”
“We were at Lyndhurst Hall, weren’t we?” he asked, beginning to have some recollection himself. “For the duchess’s Easter house party?”
“Precisely. Now listen to this: ‘The tea was very nice, as was Mrs. Vicar, but what caught my attention was the painting in the parlor of the vicarage. A beautiful angel, taking up most of the canvas, hovered above a man who was clearly in a state of worshipful ecstasy. The name of the painting was The Adoration of the Angel. I asked Mrs. Vicar the name of the artist—he had signed only his initials, G. C. Mrs. Vicar did not know, but she said that they had bought the painting from the London art dealer Cipriani.’”