Veronica watched as a senior police officer and his men boarded the yacht, mere minutes after the police were summoned. The presence of the King’s third son, Prince Henry, and Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin at the regatta meant the police were already at Henley-on-Thames in force. The matter of the Honourable Gabriel Sibfield-Murray’s death had quickly passed up the chain of command.
Introducing himself as Detective Superintendent Naismith, the senior officer ascertained the facts of the matter. He then ordered a guard posted at the gangplank under instructions not to allow any of the guests or staff to go ashore. Veronica, in shock herself, doubted any other guest would feel motivated to do so. Unless Gabriel was poisoned, and the guilty party is here amongst us.
Gabriel’s body had been covered with a clean white tablecloth for the sake of decency. All the other guests and staff were herded under the awning on the rear deck. The victim’s family were ushered into the yacht’s capacious saloon, which occupied most of the forward superstructure. His Lordship insisted Veronica and Jacob Levine be included in the family party. Jacob hesitated then acquiesced, closing the door after the others had entered. The doctor remained outside the saloon to confer with the police.
Within the saloon, Veronica took a seat as far from the immediate family as possible. Claire eschewed convention. Instead of comforting her mother, she sat beside Veronica, clasping her hand, her pretty face locked in a blank expression. Edward cast a censorious glance at them as he sat beside his mother. Ben sat on his mother’s other side, his face a mask of shock.
On such a hot day with so many people inside, the large saloon soon became stuffy, in spite of the open windows. A constable stood by the door, vigilant in the presence of such luminous company. In a matter of minutes, his face turned pink, and a thin trickle of sweat ran from beneath his helmet, but he didn’t relax his guard.
Veronica sat watching boats pass by as the regatta crowd dispersed. Most seemed oblivious to the recent drama. Only a few boating parties glanced with open curiosity at the police activity on the luxury yacht.
After a few minutes, an ambulance drove up the riverbank track and came alongside. Two men debarked with a stretcher. The constable on guard at the end of the gangplank stepped aside, and the ambulancemen boarded in no haste. Sounds of movement on the upper deck increased. Something hard was laid upon the deck, feet shuffled then moved away toward the gangplank.
The ambulancemen reappeared carrying the stretcher with a covered, inert form. Everyone in the saloon tensed as the body was loaded aboard the vehicle and didn’t relax as it drove off in the direction of town. Lady Sibfield-Murray emitted a loud sob and looked away. The tension in the day cabin remained thick enough to cut with a knife.
A detective constable appeared in the doorway and summoned the family one by one to be interviewed, beginning with His Lordship. As people left, the cabin became less crowded, and some of the tension drained away. When Claire was summoned, she gave Veronica’s hand a squeeze as she rose.
Veronica took her turn ten minutes later, leaving the stuffy room with relief. As she crossed the main deck escorted by the detective constable, she saw Claire standing on the riverbank with her family beneath the shade of a tree.
Guests who’d passed through the interviews stood aside on the towpath, leaving a wide and decorous gap between themselves and the grieving family. A line of constables kept a growing and curious crowd at a discrete distance. Veronica noticed with resignation that a few journalists had appeared in the throng, waving press passes, cameras and notebooks in an effort to get the scoop. Jacob conferred with His Lordship for a moment then walked over to where the press waited. The journalists and bystanders crowded closer to hear what he had to say.
Lady Sibfield-Murray stood weeping, the picture of misery, with her husband and children gathered around her. Ben still appeared shocked to the core, his eyes wide and staring at nothing. He held his straw boater by the brim and turned it in his hands, over and over. The cerise blazer he wore seemed unbearably cheerful in the sad scene.
Edward stared into the distance as if transfixed by the sight of Henley church tower, absently rubbing his mother’s hand. Claire stared up into the greenery of the tree, overhanging the bank where the family stood. What she sought there, Veronica couldn’t begin to guess.
Veronica was guided to the afterdeck where Superintendent Naismith leaned on the rail, staring out at the river. Her escort invited her to sit in a deckchair, glanced at his fob-watch, and jotted something in his notebook. He then asked her to confirm her name and address.
“Mrs. Veronica Nash, née Whyard, of Elm Park Gardens, Chelsea, London.”
Naismith turned to her, looking thoughtful. “You wouldn’t happen to be the young lady who was involved in that affair with the aeroplane up in Suffolk, by any chance?”
Her heart sank a little at his words, spoken in a soft Oxfordshire burr. The previous month the press had been all agog at the story of the fleeing peer, Lord Ollingford. Headlines had been filled by his attempt to escape justice in a war-surplus aeroplane following his murder of three people in the sleepy Suffolk village of Fenton Old Soke. His escape had been prevented when Claire drove her Bentley into his aeroplane’s tail assemblage, resulting in a fiery crash that injured the peer and his lover. Veronica had earned her burns by rescuing the two men from the wreckage.
She closed her eyes for a moment as memory surged. It left its mark on us in more ways than one.
“Yes, Superintendent. I’m that Veronica Nash.”
“Indeed? Well, well.” Naismith eyed her with interest, as did the detective constable standing to one side. “I’m sorry you were exposed to yet another death, especially so soon after the incidents of last month.”
She gave him a pained smile. “No more sorry than I, Superintendent.”
“I recollect reading that you were injured, and I see some marks of that experience on you yet. Are you well enough to give a statement today?”
“Yes. Better I speak to you now while this terrible event is fresh in my mind.”
“Very well.” Naismith nodded to the detective constable, who stood poised to take notes. Clearing his throat, Naismith continued in a formal tone. “Perhaps you’d give me your account of what happened this afternoon, Mrs. Nash.”
She took a deep breath, collected her thoughts, and recounted what she’d witnessed. Naismith listened closely while the detective constable copied her statement.
At the end of her account, Naismith rubbed his fingers over his bushy moustache. “So, it appears many of the guests partook of the cocktail containing amaretto liqueur, the one fashioned by Benjamin Sibfield-Murray. Is this correct?”
Veronica nodded. “Yes. He called it Kiss and Tell. It’s an American concoction, apparently.”
Naismith glanced at his aide, who looked up from his notebook and said, “It ties in with what other witnesses said, sir.”
“Interesting.” Naismith gave Veronica a courteous nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Nash, that was most helpful. You may join the others on the riverbank.”
She stood. “Will we be returning to London aboard the yacht, Superintendent?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We’ll need to impound this vessel temporarily whilst we search for evidence.” He gestured to the riverbank. “Taxis and such are at a premium, what with the regatta today. I’ve given orders for a charabanc to be commandeered and brought down so the family and guests can be conveyed to the station in town. From thence you may return home, although I’d like you all to hold yourself available in case we have need to ask further questions.”
“What about the staff?”
He gave her a sideways look as if puzzled why she should care. “We’ll take care of them, by the by, once they’ve given their statements.”
She stood. The scar gave a twinge. She tried and failed not to wince. “I understand.”
The gangplank clattered under Veronica’s feet as she crossed the narrow strip of water to the riverbank. She hesitated for a moment, looking at Claire with her family and feeling unsure as to whether she should join her or not.
Claire solved the matter by leaving the sad little group and coming over to her. They hugged, their embrace lingering longer than would normally be considered politic in public, but on this occasion, nobody seemed to notice.
Veronica drew comfort from the embrace. Judging by the way the stiffness went out of Claire’s body, she felt the same.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” Veronica whispered in Claire’s ear.
“Don’t be, darling.” Claire drew back, holding her by the arms and gazing at her. Apart from a certain puffiness about her eyes and an air of weariness, she seemed to be recovering from the experience. “I’m all right.” The splutter of an engine announced the arrival of the open-topped charabanc. “Here’s the bus.”
Claire looped elbows with Veronica and led her toward it.
“You don’t seem unduly upset,” Veronica said, noting her lover’s demeanour and remembering the bitterness in her earlier words concerning Gabriel.
They’d covered most of the distance to the charabanc before Claire replied with an edge to her voice. “I’ll tell you later—perhaps.”
They boarded and went right to the back. Veronica thought of her own experiences as a clippie aboard a bus in Norwich during the war. She’d filled the place of a man who went off to serve. How astonishing. I haven’t been on a bus since then. I remember that dreadful stiff uniform with the long skirt I had to wear. She sat, smelling the familiar odours of public transport—leather upholstery, perspiration, old perfume, a lingering scent of tobacco smoke. I’ve grown too used to the soft life in Chelsea, with taking taxis everywhere. I doubt Claire’s family have ever been aboard a bus until now.
The rest of the boat party boarded after them, with the family coming last to occupy the front seats. Lady Sibfield-Murray seemed too downcast to do more than sit, a silent, grieving figure. His Lordship cast a frowning glance in their direction, as did his sons. Ben hesitated, seeming on the verge of joining his sister and Veronica at the rear, but Claire gave a quick shake of her head. Ben looked disappointed and settled in a seat behind his parents instead.
Jacob sat alongside him, a subdued figure. A uniformed police sergeant boarded last and directed the driver to head for Henley Station. The charabanc set off with a lurch, and within minutes they were passing through the charming riverside town.
Veronica held hands with Claire and looked out at the scene. On any other occasion, I’d enjoy this.
Henley was crowded with regatta visitors enjoying the afternoon sunshine. A celebration spilt across the road outside a pub on Reading Road, and the driver sounded his horn to clear a passage. Some of the crowd seemed ready to make sport of him but drew back when the police sergeant stood up and waved them aside.
“Make way there!” he shouted in stentorian tones. “We have a grieving family aboard.”
Abashed, the crowd moved aside. Curious glances followed the charabanc as it went by.
The rest of the journey to the station passed without incident. At the station, His Lordship instructed Jacob to telephone the family townhouse in Bloomsbury and order his chauffeur to collect the family at Paddington station. Superintendent Naismith arrived not long after and arranged with the stationmaster for a carriage to be reserved for the family on the next train to London.
As the train drew into the station, Claire took hold of Veronica’s hand in a tight clasp. “You’re family, darling. Stay by me.”
“I shall. Will we go to the house?”
Claire closed her eyes and sagged against her for a moment. “I suppose, although really I only want to go home with you.”
London felt hot and stuffy after the fresh air they’d enjoyed on the river. The air smelled of dust and coal smoke, horse droppings, and exhaust fumes from the motor vehicles thronging the streets.
The Sibfield-Murray’s Georgian townhouse on a quiet Bloomsbury street was already in mourning when their party arrived. The neatly clipped box bushes either side of the door wore ribbons of black crepe, and a black bow had been tied to the shiny brass door knocker. Veronica supposed the chauffeur had spread the news before departing to collect his employer from Paddington station.
She followed Claire up the polished stone steps and inside, remembering the only other occasion she’d been there was during the family’s Christmas-cum-Hanukkah celebration. Quinn, the butler, greeted them with a sombre face. Claire’s parents went upstairs at once, His Lordship all but carrying his wife. Veronica noticed he was so distraught he failed to touch the mezuzah by the front door. Edward touched the emblem before hastening inside. Claire and Ben didn’t so much as glance at it.
With smooth efficiency, Quinn took hats and coats and directed everyone into the parlour, where a maid and footman served tea, the British panacea for every crisis.
Edward stood lost in thought by the empty hearth, looking more donnish than ever with his hand resting on the mantle. Veronica noticed someone had already draped black crepe across the mirror above his head.
Ben slumped in an armchair and stared up at the ornate plasterwork ceiling. A lit cigarette dangled unheeded from his fingers, the thin grey trail of smoke rising into the still air. Jacob took the other armchair and sat gazing into space. Claire led Veronica to the couch and sat alongside her, clasping her hand.
Several silent minutes passed before Lord Sibfield-Murray came into the parlour. Ben and Jacob stood respectfully, and His Lordship directed his gaze at his secretary.
“Jacob, we need to discuss the funeral arrangements. I shall contact Rabbi Freedman.” His Lordship’s Cheshire dialect had become stronger as if in his distress he’d slipped back to his roots.
Jacob cleared his throat. “Of course, My Lord. Would you like me to apprise the Lord Chancellor’s office of the circumstances?”
His Lordship paused for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, please do so. You can pass along my assurance to Viscount Cave that I’ll attend the House on Monday, come what may. I shall do what I can to have the postmortem expedited so Gabriel’s...” He took a deep breath. “Gabriel’s body can be released for burial by tomorrow.”
Jacob bowed and departed to use the telephone in the hall.
Veronica leaned closer and whispered to Claire. “Tomorrow? Isn’t that rather abrupt?”
Claire shook her head, seeming impatient. “No. No, darling,” she whispered back. “You seem to forget Daddy’s Jewish. Under Jewish law and custom, it’s respectful to bury the dead before they begin to, ah, change. There’s never an open-coffin viewing either, which I think is something else that will trouble poor Mummy. In the Jewish faith, it’s also held to be disrespectful to gaze upon someone who can’t look back. The sooner the better for the mourners, too, so they can begin the healing process with the least delay.”
Ben shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking at his father. “I’m not at all sure Gabe wanted a Jewish interment, Dad.”
His Lordship stiffened. “Why should he not have one? I keep my family’s faith, Benjamin, even if you and your siblings aren’t eligible unless you formally convert. You and Claire both seem to think it irrelevant anyway.”
Unseen by her father, Claire rolled her eyes. Ben flushed and walked over to look out of the window at the street below. When they’d first arrived at the house, junior staff were there spreading straw to muffle the wheels of passing vehicles. A Victorian practice Veronica was surprised to see still observed.
Ben watched for a while, then turned back to the room. “Gabe wrote me at Oxford from time to time. In his last letter in June, Gabe told me he intended to convert to Church of England so he could marry Elizabeth.”
Lord Sibfield-Murray stared at his youngest son. “What? But why?”
“He told me he was sick of all the Jewish slurs and snide insults directed against him in the city.” Ben’s expression became defiant. “I can’t say I blamed him. It’s bad enough at Oxford sometimes.”
Someone cleared his throat close by Veronica. She startled and turned to see Jacob had re-entered the room unobserved.
The private secretary spoke up, a pained look on his face. “If this is so then I’m afraid Gabriel’s last letter would place a different complexion on things, My Lord. There’s every chance it would be construed as a posthumous statement of intent under law.”
“But that’s nonsense!” His Lordship uttered, but doubt crossed his face. “Surely his will would clarify matters?”
Jacob looked regretful. “Even if it did, any stipulation governing his burial would be voided should his will predate the letter.”
“Well, dash it all. Do you know who Gabriel’s solicitor is, Jacob?”
“I have it on record, My Lord. However, it is Saturday. I doubt the gentleman will be available to give us access to Gabriel’s will.”
His Lordship threw up his hands. “Well, find him and have him rouse it out, man! This is a matter of urgency.”
“As you wish, My Lord.”
Jacob bowed and departed.
Lord Sibfield-Murray turned on his son. “Benjamin, if you have that letter to hand, I shall need to see it immediately.”
“Ah. The thing is, it’s in my desk at Oxford.”
“Then you shall have to take the car to Oxford and fetch it back here.”
Ben opened his mouth as if to protest but close it again when his father glared at him. “Of course, Dad.”
His Lordship rang for the butler, and when Quinn appeared, told him to fetch the car round.
Veronica leaned close to whisper to Claire. “But will there not be a postmortem? Since your brother was apparently murdered...”
Lord Sibfield-Murray rounded on them, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Claire, take your... your friend home with you. This is not a matter to be bandied about by those outside the family.”
“Oh gosh!” Claire stood, all but hauling Veronica to her feet. “Of course, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
Veronica found herself being towed out of the parlour, through the hall where the imperturbable Quinn fetched their hats. Before she could draw breath, they were standing on Percy Street.
“Well!” she gasped. “What did I do wrong?”
Claire sighed. “Oh, God, darling. I do love you, but you can be thoughtless sometimes.” She linked arms. “Never mind. It’s a relief to head home, and earlier than I hoped.”
The Sibfield-Murray limousine appeared around the corner as Ben emerged from the house. He’d donned a sober dark jacket, trousers, and trilby. He blinked when he saw them on the kerb. “Are you off with it, girls?”
Claire grimaced. “Yes. Daddy kicked us out. It’s all so bogus. We’ll go and find a taxi to take us home.”
“Oh, don’t do that.” The family’s chauffeur stopped the car and got out to open the door for Ben, who waved a hand at the car. “I can give you a lift. Chelsea’s not far out of the way.”
“Thanks, Jim-jam.”
They got into the limousine.
“I didn’t think your father could have heard me,” Veronica complained, settling in the luxurious seats. “I whispered.”
Claire gave her a fond look. “I should have warned you, sound carries in that room.”
Veronica sighed as the car moved off, then pointed up the street to where a bus had pulled up to a stop. “Oh dear, that looks ominous.”
Two men in cheap brown suits alighted from the vehicle. One carried a camera case over his shoulder. Veronica caught a glimpse of a press pass tucked in the other fellow’s hatband. As the car passed, another man came around the corner from Tottenham Court Road and joined them. The trio looked up at the street sign and made a beeline for Percy Street.
“I can guess where they’re going,” Claire said and sighed. “Gabriel’s death will be all over the evening editions. Daddy’ll bust a gut.”
Veronica leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “I hoped I’d seen the last of death for a while. It looks like it’s not to be.”
“It’s hardly your fault if people die when you’re near, darling.”
Veronica opened her eyes to see Claire lift a shoulder.
“Kismet.”
They reached Elm Park Gardens where the limousine dropped them off outside the door to their flat. Ben waved as he sped off on his journey to Oxford. Veronica followed Claire upstairs, her distracted mind still noticing the wiggle of Claire’s bottom in her tight summery dress.
Muriel, Claire’s new maid, poked her head out of the kitchen when they let themselves in. She emerged into the hall with her bare forearms dusted with flour. Darker marks under the armpits of her rusty black uniform dress showed she was feeling the heat.
“Good afternoon, misses. Excuse my appearance, I was just in the middle of a bake.”
Claire looked surprised. “Baking? In this heat?”
“You both need to eat, misses.” Muriel wiped her hands on her apron and gave them a curious look. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”
“There’s been a terrible tragedy,” Claire replied, her boarding school-educated vowels more clipped than usual. “I’m afraid my oldest brother has died. Muriel, be a dear and bring some tea into the sitting room, please. We’ll attend to our outdoor things.”
The maid’s eyes went wide, but she bobbed a quick curtsy. “Of course, miss.”
They divested themselves of coats and hats then went through into the sitting room, which overlooked the enclosed garden in the centre of the square. The air felt stuffy. Muriel had opened all the windows, but the net curtains barely stirred.
“God, I wish this bloody weather would break.” Claire dropped into an armchair and kicked off her shoes. “Even breathing’s a chore.”
“Isn’t it?” Veronica took the other armchair and followed suit, relieved to let her stockinged feet relax at last.
They sat in silence, each lost to their own thoughts. Muriel came in, her arms clear of flour and sleeves restored. She set the tray of tea things on the new coffee table, poured for them, and departed without uttering a word.
Claire watched her go with approval. “Muriel’s shaping up to be an absolute gem.”
“I’m glad she’s with us.”
Claire’s eyes twinkled as she sipped her tea. “At least she’s not bothered by funny goings-on between us.”
“Thank God for that,” Veronica replied and sighed. “I don’t think I ever felt so mortified when our last maid gave her notice in those terms.”
“It’s not for a maid to judge her employer, darling. If she hadn’t given notice, I’d have sacked her for that, tout de suite.”
“Of course.” Veronica hesitated then leaned forward. “Claire, I thought your father liked me. I’m so sorry I upset him.”
Claire reached over and patted her knee. “He does like you, and he also can tolerate our funny goings-on. After all, he was one of the Peers who voted against that bill making lesbianism illegal when it reached the House of Lords two years ago. I think he had some inkling of my inclinations even then. You do understand he had to lash out when you spoke out of turn. Otherwise, he might have gone off pop.”
“Of course. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling.”
“Quite.” Claire paused with a slight smile. “Thank you for tolerating my moodiness on the way home, both on the train and in the car. I do appreciate it.”
“My pleasure, dearest. In any case, I knew better than to say anything while we were in public. I know how people don’t seem to notice the staff on public transport and sometimes say the most outrageous things.”
“I can imagine.”
Veronica eyed her. “You... aren’t reacting the way I expected you to under the circumstances.”
Claire raised her eyebrows. “You mean I should display an outpouring of grief? Indulge in a rending and tearing of my clothes, a gnashing of teeth, a wailing and general carrying-on? Possibly with extra sackcloth and ashes?”
Veronica had to smile at Claire’s arch tone. “Well, nothing quite so dramatic, but I expected something along those lines.”
Claire tipped her head back and sighed. “I simply can’t, darling. Oh, dash it, I need a drink. I dearly love tea, but sometimes stronger measures are called for.”
She got up and went over to the sideboard and fetched a bottle of gin. Returning to her chair, she poured a generous slug in each cup. Sitting, she downed most of her tea in one gulp.
Veronica sipped hers and set it aside. “So, what are you feeling right now?”
Claire chuckled, although her expression looked serious. “Must we talk about feelings, darling? We are British, you know.”
“If you don’t want to talk, of course, we don’t.”
Claire topped off their cups, filling hers to brim-full. “I’ll tell you later when we’re alone.”
Muriel went out to buy the evening papers, returning in a sombre mood to hand them to Claire along with the late afternoon post, her face rich with sympathy.
The suspicious death of the Honourable Gabriel Sibfield-Murray during the Henley Regatta had found space on the front page, alongside news of the Dockworkers’ strike. Claire read the column in silence before putting the newspaper aside in favour of her novel.
Veronica picked up the newspaper and saw the details known to the journalist were sketchy at best. Although the dreaded word poisoned was used. The column included a grainy photograph of Gabriel, looking distinguished in formal wear, taken from what source she couldn’t guess at. Veronica studied the image. It’s hard to believe he was alive and well not so many hours ago. Who killed him, and why?
She reflected on what she’d seen earlier that day. Thinking of who had been where aboard the yacht, and what they had done. Her mind refused to grip the situation and offer clues. I’ve been close to death so many times, yet it still comes as a shock.
Dropping the newspaper aside, she turned her attention to the post. One letter addressed to them both bore a Birmingham postmark. Veronica slit open the flap and extracted the letter. It was short and had the look of someone who lacked education but took care over each word. Scanning it through once her eyebrows rose.
“This is remarkable.”
Claire looked up from her book. “What is it?”
“It’s from Tilly Barlow’s father. Listen to this.”
Dear Ladies,
Pardon me for writing to you without introduction. I am Matilda Barlow’s dad. I am writing this to tell you how much I appreciate what you both did to save my little Tilly’s life. I am unable to have the honour of calling on you to thank you both in person due to pressing business here at home. Instead, I shall look out for you both if you know what I mean.
Yours sincerely,
Dick Barlow.
Claire smiled quizzically. “Well, that’s jolly nice of him. I wonder what he means by looking out for us both?”
“I wonder.” Veronica folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. “Didn’t Tilly imply her father’s something of a top gangster in Birmingham?”
“She and Lucinda Fairbright both implied that.” Claire chuckled. “Crikey. As if this week wasn’t strange enough, now we have a master criminal protecting us.”
A quiet evening passed. Much to Veronica’s relief, Claire resisted the temptation to get drunk as a way of coping with the day’s events. Muriel went off duty at nine, having ensured that they had all they needed.
They retired to bed late. The night felt too humid for words, and neither relished the idea of tossing and turning into the early hours. Muriel had made up the bed, but Veronica simply took the quilt and sheets, bundled them up and threw them into a corner.
Loudly eschewing any idea of wearing her silk pyjamas, Claire stripped naked and lay down on their bed. The scar on her right shoulder drew Veronica’s eye, as usual, the puckered halfpenny-size wound showing dark pink against Claire’s pale flesh. After a moment’s hesitation, Veronica undressed, turned out the light, and lay alongside her.
Claire sought and took her hand. “It’s too bloody hot even to cuddle, darling, but consider yourself cuddled.”
“I do.”
“Gabriel touched me, you know.”
Veronica blinked at the abruptness of Claire’s words. “He did what?”
“He molested me.” Her words were clipped. “When I was a girl.”
Veronica turned her head to see Claire profiled against the pale light of the window, gazing up with what appeared to be a peaceful expression. “It happened at the family estate in Speyside, in Scotland. I was barely eight years old, and Gabriel was twelve. He began creeping into my room at night and... doing things to me. Things I didn’t understand at the time, of course, but which felt wrong.”
Veronica’s heart began to pound with anger. “The swine!”
“Yes. Gabriel was always a bully, full of a sense of entitlement. He was the heir apparent, you see. His attitude grew worse as he grew richer. Now it’s down to poor old Eddie to carry on the family name.”
“How long did it go on for? Why didn’t you tell your parents?”
“Gabriel abused me for the next two years, always in Langmoore Castle during the summer holidays, never the townhouse. I suppose he thought it too likely he’d be caught there, whereas Langmoore is a sprawling place. Our rooms were in the old part of the castle, well away from our parents’, and the walls are thick. Ben and Eddie were close by, but they didn’t seem to know anything was going on. Gabriel could do to me what he liked. As for why I didn’t tell Mummy and Daddy...” She took a deep breath.
“Well, I didn’t think they’d believe me. Gabriel was always their darling, you see. The First Born. The apple of their eye.” She paused. “I did try to speak up once, after one night when he’d hurt me. Mummy refused to countenance the idea of her dear oldest son doing anything wicked.” She shrugged.
“After that, Gabriel was more careful. He didn’t take my virginity, but he did a lot of other things, things that hurt me but didn’t leave any visible marks. It only stopped when I went to Fenton Priory.”
Veronica found her breath had quickened as Claire related the appalling litany of abuse. “I can understand why you’d hate him.”
“I loathed him,” Claire said in matter-of-fact tones. “I stood beside you on the deck of the yacht, watching him flap around and choke, and inside I was cheering.” The pillow rustled as she turned her head to look at Veronica. “Doesn’t that sound awful, darling? I thought I’d buried those feelings about Gabriel, locked them away for good. But there. All I could do when he died was put on a shocked face and cheer inside.”
Veronica lay silent for a long time. Claire’s hand felt hot in her clasp, and Veronica felt the tension drain out of her.
“So now you know,” Claire murmured.
“I’m glad you confided in me, dearest,” Veronica said at last. “If I’d only known...”
“What could you have done? Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge, darling.” Claire squeezed her hand. “I’m glad I told you. Once the funeral’s over, I can forget him as best I may.”
But it’s not over. Veronica turned her head to regard Claire, thankful her expression was hidden in the darkness. My poor, dear darling, what you’ve told me gives you a prime motive for murder.