Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(72)

Miriam sat quietly, almost in the corner, and he knew she would not speak unless she judged it necessary.

He stood as Sarah came into the room. He could see by the way she held her head, and her stiff, straight shoulders, that she was afraid. The pallor of her face could have been grief, or emotional exhaustion. She barely glanced at Miriam.

‘Please sit down, Miss Graves.’ He gestured towards the chair opposite the one on which he had been sitting. ‘Miss fford Croft is here as a chaperone, so you do not need to have any of your own staff here, in case you wish to say something that you would rather keep private from them.’

She hesitated a moment, as if she might refuse. Then she obeyed, holding her hands in her lap, back still perfectly straight. No doubt she could walk with a book balanced on her head, and not let it fall. It was the classic exercise for a young lady’s deportment. He could remember Jemima doing it, under protest. But this was so far from anything Jemima had had to endure. How easy their lives were, compared to this!

Would it be kinder to be blunt? Not to stretch out the things he had to ask her, increasing her fear? How could he know the best approach? He knew nothing of her, except her obvious circumstances, and the fact that she sat opposite him and refused to avoid his glance.

He should not even be thinking of her feelings. He should be more practical, and perhaps show more courage. He should be looking for the most effective way to get her to tell him the truth.

‘Miss Graves, we looked at the body of your mother.’

Her eyes widened. ‘How? She is . . . buried!’

‘We dug her up . . . I’m sorry. She is not in her body any more. She is at peace, whole again . . . I think.’

For a moment, confusion was clear in her face. ‘You . . . think? Are you not sure of your own beliefs, Mr Pitt? Or are you questioning whether she was good enough . . . to go to any kind of heaven?’ Then there was nothing left in her eyes but anger.

He was taken aback. ‘No, Miss Graves. I am questioning whether the body was that of your mother.’

Sarah glanced at Miriam. ‘You dug up the wrong body?’ She did not need to say more; accusation was complete.

‘No!’ he swallowed. ‘No, we got the right grave, it was quite clearly marked.’

‘Thank you.’

He had to start again. But he was more determined. He had a new respect for her, even though it impeded his attempts to discover the truth. ‘The body was that of a woman who had died from a head injury, and her face and upper body had been burned, enough to disfigure her. I am not sure that it was your mother.’

‘I . . .’ Sarah began, then stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘Didn’t Mr Falthorne identify her, and in my mother’s bedroom? Dressed in her clothes, who else could it be?’

‘You were going to say that you did not see her?’ he asked. She must have been protecting Falthorne when she claimed to have identified the body. He would have respected her less had she not done so.

‘He . . . was saving me from that.’ She found it difficult to say.

Was that the thought that disturbed, or was she reluctant to lay the blame on Falthorne for what might have been a profound mistake? Or was Daniel chasing a ridiculous fantasy, and she did not dare to say so to him?

But the evidence suggested it was not Ebony Graves.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered her question. ‘Who else would call upon her? And it was not in her bedroom, it was her boudoir – a natural place to entertain a woman who knew her well. More private, a little more comfortable than the withdrawing room.’

She stiffened again. It was only the smallest of movements, but the last vestige of colour drained from her face. He looked at her hands; her knuckles were white. He was glad that Miriam was present, in case Sarah actually fainted.

He leaned forward a very little. ‘Miss Graves, if it was not your mother, and you keep silent and allow your father to be hanged for having killed her, you will be guilty of his death. I cannot believe you wish that, whatever the truth of the matter. Apart from the morality of it, who then will look after Arthur?’

She stared at him with something close to hatred, but she did not answer.

‘Who was she, and how did she die?’

She clenched her jaw tight, as though to prevent herself from letting the words course their way out of her mouth.

‘Did your father kill her?’ he persisted.

She closed her eyes and tipped her head a little downwards. Was that a denial?

‘Are you prepared to let him hang?’ he said again.

It was as if he had struck her.

He wanted to reach out and touch her. He even started to, and then realised how inappropriate it was. He barely knew her. And yet his pity for her was overwhelming.

‘Who was she?’ he repeated.

Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Miss Graves, who was she?’

‘I’m not Miss Graves, I think.’ There was the edge of a smile on her lips, a bitter, self-mocking smile.

What did she mean? He was totally confused.

She saw his look and spoke almost gently. ‘Oh, Russell Graves is my father. I wish he were not. The woman on the carpet was Winifred Graves. His first wife. Or so she said. I believe her.’

‘What?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘He has recently inherited a title, of all things, and the money and estate that go with it. Isn’t that absurd?’ The contempt in her voice was scorching. ‘Winifred found out about it, from wherever she lives. I don’t know. She came to tell us that he never divorced her, so she is still entitled to a wife’s share of his good fortune. We are illegitimate, Arthur and I. And my mother has no marriage. So, she is a bigamous wife.’