Sonnet to a Dead Contessa (13 page)

autographed picture of two circus performers, signed “To our good friend Lady Acton”

drawing of a woman holding a hammer and a spike

Serafina looked up from the list, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Some of the articles are duplicates, the handkerchiefs with ‘Violet’ on them. That must mean something, but what?”

“I noticed that, and there’s the playing card, the queen of hearts. What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. It may be just a trick to confuse us. I don’t understand the picture of the woman.”

“No, I don’t either. We’ll have to ask around.” He held up a piece of paper. “And here’s the poem.”

“Another poem?”

“Yes, just like Lady Welles’s murder. See if you can make anything out of it.”

Serafina took it, and her eyes ran over it.

Hath not a Jew eyes?

If you prick us, do we not die?

The world is full of traitors,

And highborn women mere impersonators!

Better if they were off the earth—

Even those of noble birth!

“What do you make of it, Lady Trent?”

“It’s like the other note. Terrible poetry, I think, although I’m no expert. That first line sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“I can. It’s from Shakespeare’s play
The Merchant of Venice.
I don’t know what it means though.”

“Who said the line?”

“The merchant himself. A Jewish merchant. Mean enough fellow, but one felt sorry for him.”

“Notice how the killer has put in a reference to ‘highborn women.’ And the two victims were both that, women with titles.”

“Evidently the Slasher has a hatred for women who are titled.” He gave her a quick glance. “You’ll have to take precautions, Serafina.”

The two talked about the clues, and finally he said, “I’ll have Kenzie make a diagram of the room. And, if your father agrees, we’ll move the body to his laboratory for the autopsy.”

“Yes, please do. He will do it.”

Matthew came forward, took her hand, and held it. It was an unusual gesture for him. “I’m sorry to put you through this, Serafina, but unless we catch this fellow, he’ll kill again.”

“We will find him, Matthew.”

They walked out of the room, and the butler, Smith, was waiting. “Where is your master, Smith?”

“He’s at his club, sir, I understand.”

“You’re not expecting him home?”

“No, he stays there whenever he is in town.”

This was no shock to Serafina, but Matthew’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Thank you.” He turned. “I’ll go break the news to him.”

“I’d better stay here, Matthew. The children have to be told. It might be best if I do it rather than a man from Scotland Yard.”

“What will happen to them?”

“She has a sister, Irene, who takes care of them. She never married. She’s very devoted. I expect she will stay here as house-keeper and nanny for the children. But they loved their mother. They’re going to have a hard time.”

Matthew’s eyes closed, and he shook his head. “What an inhuman beast!”

“
Inhuman
is exactly the word I’d use. You’d better go, Matthew.” She watched as he left the house and went at once into the kitchen, where she made herself tea and set to thinking up a way to break the news to Margaret’s children—but there was, she knew well, no
good way to tell two children their mother was dead.

EIGHT

S
erafina and her family arrived at St. Mary’s Church, which was only a short distance from Prince’s Road. Other members of the funeral party were filing in, all with the same pinched expression on their faces that one sees at a funeral. Several members of Parliament were in attendance, and Lord Herbert Welles, the widower of the murdered Lady Stephanie Welles, was seated in front of Serafina’s family. Marchioness Rachel Reis and her husband, the marquis, were there. The marquis himself was a short man with black hair and black eyes that seemed too small for his frame. He was a successful arms manufacturer, but his wealth showed more in the dress of the marchioness than in his own. She was a striking woman of average height with black hair and grey eyes. Next to them were Baron Jacques DeMain and Baroness Danielle DeMain. They were of French descent. Serafina was surprised, however, to see Miss Martha Bingham, who sat in a group of women all plainly dressed, and all of them had a rather predatory look about them.

She was very much aware of Dylan, who had entered quietly. She was taken aback to see Meredith Brice sitting beside him. For some reason the sight irritated her, for the woman did not know Margaret Acton. Dylan had come to support Serafina, who had told Dylan much about her meaningful friendship with Margaret. Somehow, however, she was angered by the sight of the Welsh-woman. Mrs. Brice was wearing a black dress, apparently new, and somehow managed to look very seductive even in such circumstance and in such costume. The family came in and took their seats, and Serafina’s heart went out to Charles and Roger, both dressed as miniature adults in suits of solemn black. Count Fredrick Acton had a stricken expression on his face, though Serafina could not discern whether it was because he expected this day or was shocked by its arrival.

The service began and continued, as it seemed to Serafina, interminably. The Church of England certainly knew how to hold a funeral—if length and a solemn air were the prime requirements. On and on droned the speakers, and at one point Serafina wanted to jump up and scream,
This is Margaret! She’s my friend. She was a lovely person, and I see none of her in what is happening in this church today.

Somewhat shocked at her impulse, Serafina looked down to see that she was squeezing David’s hand so hard he was wincing. She immediately released her grip, put her arm around the back of his shoulders, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Davey boy.”

“It’s all right, Mum.” He managed a smile, but his face was pale. He had been worried about what would happen to his companions, the children of Margaret Acton, and seemingly nothing Serafina could do would calm his nerves. She had promised him that they would visit the boys every week, would have them over to stay for the weekend, and this had swayed his anxiety somewhat. But still, as the funeral droned on, his eyes went again and again to his two youthful companions. Serafina could read his expression.
What if that were me and I had lost my mother?
He had an open simplicity that she loved, and she dreaded to see the day when he became sophisticated enough to hide behind fashionable faces and expressions.

Finally the service was over, and the tedious and painful second act of the funeral began. Serafina had always hated funerals, especially this part. She led David outside, and the sun was high in the sky as the hearse drawn by four black horses with black plumes passed. It had glass sides, and she could see the coffin inside covered with flowers. Obviously a small fortune had been spent on them, and for some reason the thought incensed Serafina. She felt David’s hand tightening on hers and saw that he was staring at the coffin. Putting her arm around him, she stooped and held him close. “Don’t mind it,” she whispered. “That’s not really our Margaret.”

“Who is it, Mum?”

“I mean,” Serafina stammered, “that the soul of Margaret isn’t in there.”

“Where is it, then, Mum?”

At this simple, straightforward question, Lady Serafina Trent was speechless. She had little religious faith, but she discovered that her acquaintance with Dylan had brought something there. She tried to speak and finally said, “She’s gone to be with God.”

“In heaven, Mum?”

“Yes, David, in heaven.” She was amazed at the ease with which she said such a thing, for her religious life had been dead. But now she found something blooming there. A faint hope like a tiny bud was just beginning to open, and she found to her shock and amazement that there was a joy that was not there before. The idea of Margaret being forever gone, never existing anywhere, was abhorrent to her. But the idea of her friend being in heaven, as Dylan believed and was attempting to get her to believe, was a good and pure and powerful force within her breast. She stood there and watched as three other carriages packed with mourners all in black followed the hearse, and then she led David to their own carriage. She helped him in, and then she got in and waited as Albert Givins, the coachman, skilfully guided the carriage into the line that followed the hearse. Peter Grimes, the footman, was standing behind the carriage along with Danny Spears, all dressed in suits of solemn black.

The trip to the cemetery seemed to take forever. There was another service there, but finally it was all over, and with a sigh of relief, Serafina went forward and knelt beside the two boys. She embraced Charles, then Roger, and whispered to each of them, “I’m so sorry. Your mother was such a dear friend of mine. You must come and be with David and me often.” She saw a light of joy in both faces as if the news had come straight from heaven. She stood up and turned to Count Acton and said, “Lord Fredrick, I can only offer you my grief. She was my best friend.”

Count Fredrick Acton had the heavy features of a drinker, and even now she could smell the alcohol on his breath. He muttered what people mutter at such times, and quickly Serafina turned and went back to the carriage.

As they made their way home, David was very quiet. Only once did he speak. “Are you sure that Lady Margaret is in heaven?”

“Yes, I’m very sure.”

Serafina was shocked and amazed at how easily the answer seemed to come. There were tears in her eyes because of the loss, and she could not help that, but there was a hope also that had not been there before. And along with that hope came the thought:
There is a heaven, and if Margaret is there, I would not see her if I were to die
. This concept occupied her mind as the carriage rumbled down the highway, and it brought her to an area of thought that she had carefully kept closed off before.

Serafina and David spent the rest of the day together. They played draughts and other games, but later they went outside to go for a ride. David rode his pony, Patches, and Serafina, her mare. She rode very slowly, keeping up with him, and was pleased to know that he seemed more cheerful and the colour had come back into his face. They paused by the creek to water their mounts, and David said, “This is where Charles and Roger like to come. Charles caught a big fish right over there by those willows.”

“Yes, I remember. He was so proud of it.”

“Roger was jealous because he didn’t catch anything.”

“But you remember that he caught a big turtle there one time. He wanted to eat it.”

David suddenly laughed. “Yes, it didn’t look like it would be very good, and Cook wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

The water made a sibilant noise under the horses’ front feet as they turned back toward the house. “It’s getting late,” she said. “We’ll have to let Danny rub your pony down and the mare too.”

“I could help him do it.”

“If you’d like, you can. You like Danny, don’t you?”

“Yes. He was my best friend—until Dylan came. I mean Mr. Dylan.” He shot her a quick look. “I know you want me to call him Mr. Dylan. He says I don’t have to if there’s no one there but the two of us.”

“Then
that would be perfectly all right, but it’s good manners for young people to address their seniors with respect.”