Charlie had tired of the subject and, in the way that young people do, introduced a new one without preamble, lending it even greater impact than it could ordinarily carry, although the topic was sufficiently shocking without such a tactic.
“Sir Richard’s murderer still has not been caught,” he said. “Imagine the fiend roaming the city streets at night, searching for his next victim!”
“Charles!” Mrs. Cavendish attempted to silence him.
“He could be someone we know,” Charlie went on. “They say the police have found no clues and have no idea where to look next. It could be anyone. Could even be you, Reverend Forsyth!” He laughed at his own joke.
“Charlie,” Hecate had to speak up, “it really doesn’t do to make fun of something so awful.”
John set his cup down in its saucer. “I’m sure the police officers will get to the truth of the matter soon enough,” he said.
Charlie was not convinced. “But will it be soon enough? Or will the murderer strike again?”
Mrs. Cavendish’s tone was serious. “On this I am in agreement with Charles. What use is a constabulary full of policemen in their shiny-buttoned coats if they are unable to apprehend such a villain? Our streets cannot be thought to be safe until such time as they have him locked safely away.”
“It was terribly sad for poor Sir Richard, of course, Mother, but it is one isolated event. The law will prevail,” said Hecate.
“Well, until it does I would prefer you not to venture abroad unaccompanied.”
“But—”
She held up a hand. “I was greatly relieved to see that Reverend Forsyth had escorted you home.”
“I would happily do so every day until the matter is resolved,” John was quick to say.
“There really is no necessity…” Hecate was incensed. To have her hard-won independence limited in such a way was unthinkable.
“I shall be the judge of that,” her mother insisted. “Indeed, I have already discussed this with your father and he agrees with my view.”
Hecate got to her feet. “Father said I should be accompanied at all times? I cannot believe he would insist on such a thing!”
Her mother’s expression hardened. “Are you saying I would invent his consent?”
John attempted to defuse the rising tension. “I am sure Hecate did not mean to suggest—”
“No, I am not suggesting you are lying, Mother. I am suggesting that you delivered this … this idea to Father while he was distracted. Had he given the matter his full attention he would never have agreed to it! You allowed him to unwittingly consent, taking his lack of interest for him being in favor. I doubt he even heard what you were saying.”
Mrs. Cavendish’s complexion had taken on a flush of pink that gave away her mounting anger at her daughter’s outburst. Torn between chastising Hecate for her rude assumption and not wishing to allow a guest to witness this unseemly family discord, she was momentarily silenced. It was Charlie who came to the rescue with his own observation.
“I shouldn’t worry, Mama. For a start, the murder happened at night, and you never let Hecate out on her own after dark, with or without a murderous villain on the loose. And besides”—he paused to take another bite of fruitcake—“who could possibly catch her when she’s on her bicycle?”
Mrs. Cavendish opened her mouth to protest but closed it again, lips tight, without uttering anything further on the subject. She saw her daughter’s determined stare and folded arms, Charlie’s somewhat smug expression after the points he had just made, and their visitor’s discomfort, and thought better of fighting a battle she had no chance of winning.
Hecate, seeing the rule would not be enforced, felt bad for speaking so baldly to her mother, particularly in front of a guest. She sat down again and picked up her teacup, glancing at John, who discreetly put his hand over hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
11
The next day was Saturday; a day Hecate did not work at the cathedral. Ordinarily she might accompany Charlie on a ride out to Kynaston, or assist her father in the Sisyphean task of cataloguing his treasures in the attic. On this occasion, however, she had been required to visit an ailing neighbor with her mother in the morning. Beatrice frequently reminded her that she must still find time for charitable works and make herself useful, as she put it, and she had long since learned it was quicker to agree than to resist. Besides, on this particular Saturday, she had the joy of a visit from Clementine to look forward to. Her friend arrived after luncheon, and the pair retreated to the relaxed privacy of Hecate’s bedroom.
“I swear this place becomes more like the study of an aged gentleman and less like the boudoir of a young lady every time I visit. Truly, Hecate, would it hurt to replace some of the soft furnishings? We have an abundant surplus I know Mama would not miss. Or at least consider removing some of the boxes and books? Where is a person to sit among all this?” she asked, waving a lacy cuff at the general muddle.
Hecate looked at the room as if seeing it for the first time. She took in the stacks of books borrowed from her father, the piles of notepaper containing her own scribbling regarding those she had read, the boxes of unknown interesting things that had found their way down from the attic for closer inspection. She raised her arms and let them drop by her sides. “There is a bed to sleep on,” she pointed out, “a desk to work at, and somewhere over there I recall a chaise…”
Clemmie laughed at her friend and set to moving things to make a space upon the small velvet sofa that had been all but subsumed by clutter.
“It is a wonder you emerge from such mayhem looking at all presentable. Which you do. Just about,” she teased, at last able to sit down.
Hecate noticed how pretty she looked. Her dress had just enough gathers and lace to look feminine without being ridiculous and was of course a la mode. Her golden hair was piled high in apparently effortless loops that must have required the talents of a considerably skilled lady’s maid. Even the way she sat was faultless. She did not envy her friend’s beauty, or her wealth, but there were times she felt scruffy beside her. She brushed down her own workaday navy skirts and shook away such frivolous concerns. To look a certain way would require far too much of her time. Time that could be better spent in any number of ways Clementine would no doubt have thought dull.
“I like it the way it is,” Hecate said. “I know where to find things,” she insisted, taking a black embroidered shawl from where it was draped over the back of her chair. “Here, for example, is the lovely wrap you brought me back from your trip to Spain. Barcelona, was it?”
“Madrid,” said Clemmie, clearly unconvinced there was a system at all. She picked up the nearest book on the sofa. It was a slim, leather-bound volume. “Perpendicular Architecture through the Ages. Dear me. Have you considered a work of fiction? If only so that you might understand how most women of your age conduct themselves.”
“I have no time for novels. May I have that?” She held out her hand and then added, “John lent it to me.”
“Ah-ha!” She held the book to her chest. “How intriguing. Oh, has he written an inscription?” She opened it quickly.
Hecate leaned forward and took it from her.
“He has not. As I said, he’s lent it to me. Why would he write anything?”
“Why would he miss the opportunity to pen a few words expressing how he feels? Words you would think about every time you pick up that book.”
“Clemmie, you do talk nonsense.”
“Do I? Or is that a blush I see coloring Miss Cavendish’s pale cheeks?”
“You clearly spend far too much time reading novels,” she said, dropping the book on her desk with deliberate nonchalance. When it slipped from the top of the pile, landing awkwardly on the chair, however, she could not stop herself retrieving it, dusting it off gently, and setting it down with more care.
