Page 74 of Evidence of Evil
“I know Miss Niall was in correspondence with Mr. Dunne of—”
“But not why,” Constance interrupted. “You should have spoken to Mr. Dunne himself, but there, I expect that inpatient young man you sent outside was nagging at you to act. He, poor idiot, probably thinks that arresting the wife of a baronet and magistrate will be a feather in his cap.”
A spasm crossed Omand’s face. He was clearly well aware of the dangers of such an arrest and such an enemy. Maule began to pin his hopes—hopes for what, dear God?—on Constance Grey, or whoever she was.
“So, you did not speak to Mr. Dunne,” Constance said, locking eyes with the inspector. “Mr. Grey did. And he learned that Frances Niall was not inquiring about Lady Maule but about the adoption of her own illegitimate child. In short, Frances knew nothing to Lady Maule’s discredit. Which deprives your theory of any motive.”
It seemed Maule was right to rely on her. But it was up to him to play his part now, though he had no idea what he would do after that.
He stood. “I should take that scandal-loving constable of yours away before he manages to get you both dismissed for incompetence. Good evening, inspector.”
Omand was already on his feet and managed a jerky bow. “Good evening, sir, my lady. And my apologies for disturbing you, although the matter really did require our attention.”
Maule did not trouble to answer. He merely waited in silence until the door closed behind Omand, and then he regarded the stranger who was his wife.
The world was in chaos around him and he wished more than anything to display only dignity and distance. Like Grey. But it was not in his nature. Not when the fear in Elizabeth’s eyes maddened him.
“Well?” he exploded. “Who is she?” He jerked his head toward Constance with unforgivable rudeness.
Constance rose. “My name is Constance Silver. And I stand your wife’s friend. Yours, too, did you but know it.”
The name was vaguely familiar, though he could not place it. His brain was full of Elizabeth and unspeakable ugliness.
“You are my guest under false pretenses,” he snapped.
“They aremyfalse pretenses,” Elizabeth said hoarsely. “I would not let Constance use her own name because I knew you would disapprove.”
His lips twisted in more pain than anger. “Did you? Perhaps you should go to bed, Elizabeth.”
For a moment, she looked as if she would defy him. Then she bowed her head in misery and left the room.
Sir Humphrey glowered at Constance Silver, who, however, did not look remotely intimidated. Once, Elizabeth had stood up to him too. It was what he had first liked about her.
“I think you had better leave my house, don’t you?” he said abruptly. “You and Mr. Grey, or whateverhisname is.”
“We will if you wish, of course, but I should warn you, I will go only as far as the village inn, which might cause the kind of talk you would rather avoid. Not to spite you,” she added, raising one hand before he could accuse her of it, “but because I promised to help Elizabeth.”
He glared at her, mostly from habit, not because he was angry. In fact, he didn’t seem to be angry at all, though he wanted to be. He didn’t know what this feeling was. It might have been at least partly shame because Constance was determined to stand by his wife and he was considering…what? Abandoning her?
He rushed into speech, running from his unbearable thoughts. “Why do I know your name?”
“Perhaps because Elizabeth mentioned me—perhaps because we have mutual friends.”
“In Grosvenor Square,” he said slowly as bits of chatter in gentlemen’s clubs began to come back to him. “In the discreet establishment Omand spoke of. Dear God, did my wifeworkfor you?”
“Of course she did not,” Constance snapped. For the first time since he had met her, she looked angry. “She was almost five months with child and in no condition to work for anyone.”
Inside, he cringed with shame and pity. He didn’t want to know, and yet he had to. “Then what was she doing in your…house?”
“Getting well and having her baby. In my house, she was safe.”
Safe? Dear God!“And where she came from was not,” he murmured, mostly to himself.
“Did her self-righteous father neglect to tell you that he sent her away with nothing but the clothes on her back? You are alarge, fit man, used to taking care of yourself. Wouldyoulike to be alone, friendless, and penniless on the streets of London? She, a gently bred, sheltered young girl, had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, no roof over her head, no protection.”
He felt the blood drain from his face. He could not bear much more. And yet what had Elizabeth borne?
Why had she lied?
