Chapter Eleven
CRASH!
Elizabeth started, the lipstick pausing mid-swipe at the clatter of the bin lid striking the cobbles before spinning itself out across the courtyard.
A low feline growl drifted in through the open window, answered by a flurry of high-pitched, frantic yips.
“Ah, ma pauvre Georgette!” Madame Lefèvre, Clemmi’s downstairs neighbour, cried out. “Allez! Filez, sales bêtes!” she shouted, swiping at the tabby tomcat with her wooden broom in what Sylvie had described as an almost nightly ritual.
Elizabeth recapped her lipstick, the small drama below already fading into the ordinary evening noise of the building settling.
She lifted her mother’s pearls from the jewellery box, looped them once around her neck, then a second time, and worked the clasp at the back.
A marcasite hair comb went into her inky bob at the temple, and she touched the stopper of the Chanel No. 5 to her wrists and behind each ear.
“Elizabeth.” Clemmi’s voice carried through the bedroom door. “Are you ready?”
“Almost.”
“I’ll wait for you in the salon.”
Elizabeth listened to her friend’s footsteps fade along the passage. Whatever Oliver had or hadn’t done, he was still Clemmi’s husband and father to her unborn child.
She took the grey satin court shoes from the armoire and sat on the edge of the dressing stool, working the first ankle-strap through its buckle. If Oliver really was mixed up in Mr Ashby’s death, then what else might he be capable of?
Two days ago she’d have staked her life on him being harmless. Now she wouldn’t stake a shilling.
Which raised the question of just how safe her friend was under his roof.
Perhaps she should suggest Clemmi return with her to England, at least until the child was born. But this was the same Clemmi who’d invented a house guest rather than have her mother watch over her.
She moved to the second buckle. Suspicion wasn’t proof, and until she had something tangible, her doubts would remain her own.
She rose and gave her reflection a final once-over in the mirror before slipping from the room to join Clemmi.
Elizabeth paused outside the salon, catching sight of Clemmi through the open door. She watched as Clemmi reached for the small glass of sherry on the side table, raised it to her lips, the sinews in her neck straining as she swallowed the amber liquid.
Clemmi’s head shot up at the soft sound of amusement that escaped Elizabeth’s lips.
“You may mock, but wait until it’s your turn, but I suppose at least it tastes better than that foul tonic Doctor Moreau insists I take.” She set the glass down on the side table next to her. “But anything’s better than that, even boiled cabbage water.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved in a smile as she crossed to the small drinks tray Sylvie had left near the door and poured herself a small measure of sherry. “How did it go with Dr Vernet?”
“Oh, the usual.” Clemmi huffed out a breath as she closed the magazine she’d been reading and placed it on the cushion beside her.
“More rest. More red meat. More greens. And increase the Sirop de Fer Bravais to four times a day.
“ She affected a French accent as she continued.
“It is the best thing for mother and baby.”
“I see you’ve been practicing your French.” Elizabeth arched a brow as she settled into the bergère armchair opposite Clemmi near the fireplace. “And what is this Sirop de Fer Bravais? You make it sound like the devil’s own brew.”
“It might as well be. If it wasn’t for the Hippocratic oath, I’d swear the good doctor gets some kind of perverse pleasure from torturing me so.” Clemmi forced herself to take another small sip from her sherry glass. “It tastes like someone dissolved a handful of old pennies in treacle.”
“Sounds absolutely revolting.”
“It is. But Dr Vernet seems satisfied with how things are coming along, so I suppose I’ll just have to grin and bear it.” Clemmi’s hand went to her middle. “Even if it’s just for his sake.”
“So it’s to be a boy now, is it?”
“It has to be, judging by all the upset he’s causing, a real chip off the old block.
” Clemmi’s gaze lingered briefly on the silver-framed wedding photo of her and Oliver on their wedding day that commanded the central spot on the fireplace, before returning to Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t up when you returned earlier.
” She straightened slightly. “I only meant to close my eyes for ten minutes and the next thing I knew it was half-past-five.”
“You’ve absolutely nothing to apologise for. I’m sure you had a very busy afternoon, if Aunt Beatrice’s charity luncheons are anything to go by.”
“Oh, you know how these things are, everyone trying to outdo each other in their outfits and charitable donations. But Lady Davenport handled it all like the consummate professional she is. Sir Conrad’s retirement will be such a loss when he leaves.
Not him, of course; he’s such an old boar, but Lady Davenport, on the other hand, will be sorely missed. ”
“You’re not fond of Sir Conrad, then I take it?”
“Not at all.” Clemmi frowned as she shifted in her seat. “I can’t think of a single person who’ll be sorry to see him go, except perhaps Miss Bembridge. Although I can’t think why, the way he treats her.”
“What about Oliver? Will he be sorry to see Sir Conrad go?”
“He hasn’t said much about it. He doesn’t really discuss his work with me.” Clemmi glanced at her left hand, her fingers twisting the gold band on her third finger.
“Elizabeth…” Clemmi paused as if deliberating over her words. “Do you think Oliver’s … changed?”
“Changed?” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice even. “In what way?”
“I don’t know. He just seems … different. Secretive, almost.”
“He’s probably busy with work, especially with Sir Conrad’s upcoming retirement, not to mention all the preparations that must have gone into the American visit.”
“Perhaps, but I was wondering if you could speak to him–”
“Oh, Clemmi, I don’t think–” Elizabeth shifted in her seat.
“But, you’re so good at it – investigating. And I’m worried, Elizabeth. I…” Clemmi straightened her shoulders, blinking away the tears that were threatening to spill down her cheeks. “I’m worried he’s met someone else … another woman.”
Another woman? If only it were as simple as that.
Clemmi started at the sound of keys turning in the front door. “It’s Oliver,” Clemmi kept her voice low as she dabbed at her lower lashes with her fingertips.
“Clemmi?” Oliver’s voice carried from the hall.
“We’re in the salon.”
Clemmi’s eyes met Elizabeth’s. “You won’t say anything, will you?”
“Of course not.” Elizabeth reached over and squeezed Clemmi’s hand.
She would never betray Clemmi. If only she could be as certain about Oliver.
Oliver strode into the salon, making straight for Clemmi. He leant in, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“I wasn’t expecting you home for dinner.” She settled back against the cushions.
“I thought I’d surprise you. Elizabeth.” He inclined his head, his eyes narrowing.
“Oliver.” She held his gaze.
“I’m afraid Cook’s only prepared something light this evening,” Clemmi said. “But I could have Sylvie ask if perhaps there’s something else–”
“No, don’t go to any trouble. I’m sure whatever you’ve arranged with Cook will be perfectly adequate.” He turned towards the door. “What did Dr Vernet have to say?”
“The same as always.” Clemmi rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Honestly, Oliver, I’m a grown woman, but he treats me like a child. Telling me what I can and can’t eat, what time to go to bed…”
“I’m sure it must feel like that, but it’s for your own good, darling.”
“I just wish everyone would stop treating me like an invalid.”
“Pardon, madame.” Sylvie appeared in the doorway. “Cook would like to know if you are ready to eat now, madame.” Clemmi glanced at Oliver.
“Yes, please do, Sylvie.” He shrugged off his coat as he moved towards the hall. “I’ll just wash up before dinner – don’t wait for me,” he called from the hall.
Clemmi gripped the arm of the settee and pushed herself to her feet, Elizabeth rising from the armchair opposite. “Shall we?” She tucked her arm through Elizabeth’s, and they made their way to the dining room.
Sylvie had already cleared the consommé by the time Oliver appeared in the doorway.
Elizabeth had kept the conversation light during his absence – London gossip, Meli’s new position at Oxford, Aunt Beatrice’s latest campaign to marry her off – anything to keep Clemmi away from the topic they’d been discussing before dinner.
She’d do anything for Clemmi. But agreeing to investigate her husband was a different matter entirely.
If she were wrong, Clemmi would never forgive her. But if her suspicions were right…
“You’ve missed the first course.” Clemmi looked up from her plate, her lips pressed into a thin, tight line.
“It doesn’t matter.” Oliver’s hand dropped briefly to her shoulder as he passed, before taking his seat at the head of the table. “I’m not terribly hungry in any case.”
“I’m sure Cook has some consommé left over, monsieur, if you would like some.” Sylvie hovered at the door.
“It’s quite all right, Sylvie. The sole will do perfectly, thank you.”
Sylvie set his plate on the table in front of him and withdrew before pulling the door shut behind her.
“I hear you paid a visit to the chancery this morning.” Oliver reached for the lemon, drizzling the juice over his fish. “You should have stopped by my office, let me know you were there.”
How on earth did he know about her visit? She’d signed in as Eliza Winston.
Bembridge, of course.
“I didn’t want to disturb you.” Elizabeth met his gaze over the rim of her water glass. “I’m sure you had far more pressing matters to attend to, what with the Americans’ visit.”
“I’m sure I could have spared a few minutes for a quick tour.” He reached for his napkin and wiped his fingers. “But I’m curious, what brought you to the Chancery in the first place?”
“Hardly a mystery.” Elizabeth set down her water glass and turned to Clemmi. “You remember Miss Hughes – the supper I missed the night of the soirée? She’s only in Paris a short while, so I called at the chancery this morning to ask Maggie how I might reach her and apologise properly.”
“You never said you’d been to the chancery.” Clemmi speared a piece of asparagus with her fork. “Although I didn’t really give you much of a chance, did I? Going on about Dr Vernet and the luncheon.”
“You didn’t go on, I asked.”
“Still, I’m not being a very good hostess, am I? Abandoning you when you’ve come all this way. Wasn’t it Miss Hughes who helped you with that dreadful business at Ingleby Island?”
“The very same, though saying she helped is a gross understatement. That woman is like a bloodhound once she gets a whiff of a story.”
A sharp, strangled splutter escaped Oliver’s lips.
“Are you all right?” Clemmi’s gaze darted to her husband.
“I’m fine.” He reached for his water glass and took a long swallow, waving away Clemmi’s concern with his other hand.
“Something went down the wrong way, that’s all.
” He set down the glass and covered his mouth with a napkin as he cleared his throat.
“And she’s a friend of Miss Howard’s, you say? This investigator?”
“Journalist,” Elizabeth corrected him, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “And a very fine one to boot.”
“Well, I hope you’re not planning to abandon me and go gallivanting around Paris with Miss Hughes.” Clemmi drew her chin down, her lower lip pushing out.
“Of course not, I’d never abandon you.” Elizabeth reached out and gave Clemmi’s hand a gentle squeeze. “But I have arranged for us all to have lunch together tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Oliver’s fork slipped from his fingers, striking the edge of his plate with a sharp crack before clattering to the floor.
“Whatever’s the matter with you tonight, Oliver? You’re as jumpy as a cat on hot bricks.”
What indeed? Elizabeth settled back in her chair, studying Oliver over the rim of her water glass.
What exactly had made the usually composed Mr Sterling so uncharacteristically skittish this evening?
Mention of Cybil’s investigative skills had certainly rattled him for some reason.
But why?
Surely, if he had nothing to hide, he had nothing to fear.