Dear God: could the man possibly be talking about Benito Mussolini? The self-declared Duke of Fascism and Founder of the Empire? Who had graced his inauguration as dictator back in January with a speech claiming responsibility for “all the violence”—including, apparently, one particularly brutal kidnap and murder of a political opponent by his Fascist Blackshirt supporters?
As soon as I had my breath back, I interrupted him, with a mildness that would have had Holmes edging warily back, but which went straight by this inbred peer. “He is a Socialist, you know?”
“What’s that?”
“Mussolini. Or he was. First a Socialist, then an anarchist, and a Marxist, until he read Nietzsche and declared himself one of the übermenschen. He then tried to decide whether he was violently in favour of neutrality or violently in favour of war, but in the end he decided to declare a pox on both their houses and be violently in favour of himself and whatever struck Benito Mussolini’s fancy at the moment.”
The Marquess goggled, either at my argument or that the young female at his table had dared to make one, then rallied with typical male bluster. “Oh, I’m not saying he’s the man for our own country—even Baldwin admits Britain’s in no danger of falling in line behind a damned dictator. But the Italians are a Mediterranean race, hot-blooded in love and war. People like that want a strong man to control them. You know, talking about politics, I’ve been to a couple speeches lately, there’s some of us here in this country thinking we could do worse than to take a page out of the Italians’ book.”
I found myself staring, open-mouthed at his na?veté. The response to a festering sore was not to extol its virtues, but to lance the thing and let the poison bleed out. The people of Italy would soon enough realise what they had, and set about lancing their Duce—one hoped before the poison spread beyond its borders.
Then my host went a step too far.
“But why the deuces are we talking about this? Granted, you women are like Italy, better with a strong man in charge, but politics isn’t something you need to worry your head about.”
Even the candle-flames shrank for a moment, such was the electricity gathering around the clueless man at the table’s head. He gouged up a clot of potatoes with his fork and slapped it into his mouth while three of the other people in the room froze in their places and the fourth gripped her knife so hard the silver creaked.
I took a breath: remember, this is Ronnie’s mother cringing across the tablecloth from me. Ronnie’s mother, who was dependent on this…imbecile’s good will. Ronnie’s mother, who could be charged with collusion were I to drive this piece of silverware…
I forced my hand to open and leave the weapon behind. I placed my linen napkin on the table. I lowered my hands to my sides and felt the butler leap into place behind me, pulling out my chair. I rose, and addressed my laden plate. “Terribly sorry, I seem to have developed a case of the vapours, you’ll have to forgive me, good night.”
He scrambled to stand but I was out of the room before his chair had scraped back. I could hear Lady Dorothy’s rushed voice behind me but in moments, I was on the safe side of the door to the east wing. When my hostess came in, two minutes later, she found me at the drinks cabinet with an already-empty glass in my hand.
I gave her a bemused look. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve been that angry in a very long time.”
“It’s as well you didn’t bring up the Suffrage question.”
“I can imagine.” I refilled the glass and asked if I might pour something for her.
“Oh, perhaps a drop of the pear brandy?”
I gave her a generous slug of the poisonous-looking yellowy-green substance, and retreated to a chair by the fire. When my pulse rate had cooled somewhat and the sharp edges of fury had been softened by three ounces of 100-proof solvent, I raised my eyes to her. “Why do you choose to stay here?”
Her gaze darted around the room, evidence that she was not prepared for bluntness. I drew back a degree, to say, “That is, it can’t always be comfortable, to be around a man of such…strong opinions.”
“Oh, but I’m not around Edward, not all that much. He and I have our separate realms here, and I only see him—that is,” she corrected, opting for her ladylike reticence. “It is true that my brother-in-law and I are not always in agreement, but he’s been quite generous, in permitting me to remain here.”
“You could go elsewhere.”
At that, finally, she lifted her head to face me. “This is my home, Mary. My husband loved Selwick above any place on earth. I feel close to him here.”
What was it with the Beaconsfield women? Ronnie wouldn’t come back to Selwick, where she’d grown up, because she and Miles had lived in London, while Ronnie’s mother wouldn’t go home to her Ducal brother because this was where she and her husband had lived. I was fond of my own situation in Sussex, the flint house that Holmes had lived in before me, but I couldn’t imagine demanding to stay on there without him.
Or could I?
In any event, there was not much to say to her wish to remain here. And I was glad I had not responded in anger to the monstrous attitudes of the Marquess—although I would like to have driven my fork into him.
But the idea of stabbing the Marquess was a bit too close to a recent case of blood on my hands, and I moved towards less fraught ground. “Why did the Marquess never marry?”
“Oh, but he did. Goodness, that was ten—no, nearly fifteen years ago. When the old Marquess turned seventy, he more or less chose someone for Edward to marry. Nice girl, too young, I thought, and a bit…simple, but pretty enough, in a brunette kind of way. My brother-in-law has always preferred light-haired girls,” she added. “Juliette was her name. Her people own a house up near Berkshire, so Edward knew her. She died in childbirth.”
I made one of those vaguely apologetic noises, then asked if she thought the Marquess would marry again, adding, “Without a son, won’t the titles lapse? I’d have thought that would matter to him.”
“I’m pretty sure he will, yes. Lily tells me Edward’s been seeing a fair amount of two or three of the neighbours whose daughters are of a marrying age. One must hope the wife he ends up with isn’t too young.”
Her mind was clearly taken up with thoughts of the consequences of the Marquess’ theoretical marriage, causing her to forget the age difference in my own. Although in fact I agreed with her: if a young girl had to cope with marriage to a surly misogynist, there ought to be some bright sides to his personality.
I kept an eye on the level in my companion’s glass, as we talked about nothing much. When she had put about an inch inside her, bringing colour to her face and relaxation to her shoulders, I gently turned matters to her sister-in-law.
“Thank you for letting me look through Vivian’s rooms. Have you seen her sketch-books?”
“Those journals on her shelf? No. Or at least, not in some years.”
“There’s one drawing you might like to see. It’s in her last one, the only journal that doesn’t have a date on the outside. You could always tell her that I brought it to your attention, if she wonders how you came across it.”
“A drawing of what?”
“You and your husband. He’s in uniform.”
Her face opened with a look of wonder. “Oh yes! I remember—we sat for Vivian, while she did it. It took ever so long, my foot went to sleep and Tommy kept making jokes and I would laugh and she would get cross with us moving. Such a lovely afternoon that was.”
I could see the sadness about to overwhelm her, so I hastened to shove the conversation in a new direction. “Did you notice anything missing from your sister-in-law’s rooms, after she left here? Apart from the jewellery?”
“I didn’t really look. Lily made up the rooms afterwards; she might have noticed.”
“I shall ask her.”
“Do you mind—could it wait till the morning? I’d like to help, but I’m really very tired.”
Vivian Beaconsfield had been gone five days now; another few hours would make no difference. So I spent the evening with a madwoman’s sketch-journals, attempting to see the world through her eyes.
A most peculiar experience, and one that made my eventual sleep none the more restful.