Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(27)

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.

‘No. Not really. I knew of her. I met her once,’ she corrected him. She was sitting in the crimson chair, and she slowly lowered her head until he could not see her expression. It was unnecessary to ask if Mercy had liked her. It was there in the grief of her gestures.

‘I want to know what she was like,’ he went on quietly. ‘I need to find out who killed her and, if possible, why.’

She looked up. ‘But they are going to hang her husband. Do you really think he is innocent? Or is it your job to speak for the condemned,’ she answered herself, ‘so they can hang him and go home to sleep in peace?’

‘He is an unpleasant man, but that is not necessarily the same as being guilty,’ Daniel replied. ‘And if by some chance he is not guilty, then someone else is.’

Mercy straightened up and looked at him for a long time without speaking.

He waited her out.

‘She fought a lot of causes,’ she said quietly. ‘The world is changing very fast. Too fast for a lot of people, but not fast enough for others who have already caught the scent of change, and become intoxicated. Change does that to some. They fear the new. It seemed that Ebony was not afraid of anything. Not afraid enough to run away, poor creature. She wanted not only women to vote for Members of Parliament, but to be Members. She wanted education for girls. But academic, not just to speak foreign languages, and play the piano. She wanted them to read books, not just walk with a pile of them on their heads. And to practise the sciences. And she knew it would upset society. Equality always does, but I don’t think she realised how much. We talk splendidly about equality, but the reality of it appals us. We want change, but it must start tomorrow, not today, and above all, not here.’