I cannot give it the weight of fact. The scent of the alley, though, is in my memory, so I have to believe I used the back of the shop to make my exit. Do you see? I have to allow that I reconsidered meeting Mr. Kincaid and fled through the back door upon his arrival, or mayhap I fled before he arrived.”
“Why can you not remember?” Sir Arthur asked. “You have no difficulty recalling all manner of inconsequential details. You manage my schedule with remarkable efficiency, keeping most of the appointments in your head, I have noticed. You can recall where I mislaid my brushes, what the cook charged at the greengrocer, and which slippers Marisol wore when she attended the Tidwell ball. It escapes me how you fail to recollect so many of the particulars about this…this…this thing that happened to you.”
“I am given to understand that is often the way of it,” Restell said. “This thing, as you call it, was an assault of the most vicious kind. You, who saw the full extent of her injuries, must know she is fortunate to have survived with any of her senses intact. That she cannot remember the details of a beating that nearly took her life, nor recall the moments leading up to it, seems more a gift of Providence than a curse. How much more might have been accomplished by this time if you had sought me out immediately is now only a matter for conjecture. In your eagerness to avoid attaching scandal to the family, you have allowed the full weight of shame to be carried by Miss Hathaway.”
“You forget yourself, Mr. Gardner.”
Restell was having none of it. “No, Sir Arthur, I do not. You would have Miss Hathaway remember details of her ordeal as it serves you, yet through your actions have demonstrated your desire that she never speak of it. In spite of that, she came to me, knowing it would displease you, but recognizing a greater risk. She is unconvinced, you see, that the assault was random, and further, that she was the intended mark.” Restell set his cup and saucer aside, leaned forward in his chair, and made a steeple of his fingers. His regard was as frank as his speech. “When you feel compelled to upbraid Miss Hathaway for failing to recall all the particulars of her abduction, I hope you will not forget yourself, Sir Arthur, but keep in mind that it is your daughter who deserves the sharp edge of your tongue and perhaps the flat of your hand on her backside.”
Sir Arthur actually flinched. Tea sloshed over the rim of Emma’s cup as she did the same. Neither of them found their voice before Restell spoke again.
“I will want to interview Miss Vega, speak at length with Miss Hathaway, and discuss the course of further investigation with you. My arrangement, however, is with Miss Hathaway, and she is the only one whose opinion is of consequence. I will also want to speak with Mr. Charters and Mr. Johnston.”
This last name caused Sir Arthur visible discomfort. “Johnston? Why? What can be the connection?”
“Did you not release him from your employ after years of service? You provided no character and replaced him with Miss Hathaway. Revenge is not a terribly complicated motive, but the manner in which it is carried out is often as involved as it is inventive. It is also an emotion in want of resolution. Miss Hathaway’s escape suggests to me that someone is frustrated, not satisfied. Your daughter and your niece require protection such as you have no experience providing. You may require the same.”
When Restell stood this time, he inclined his head a fraction. It was less a sign of civility than it was an indication that he was preparing to excuse himself. “Please tell me where I might speak to Miss Vega in private.”
Emma tried to read again, but she was no more successful than she had been earlier. No book could hold her attention while her mind kept wandering to the drawing room where Marisol was being interviewed. The fact that it was difficult to imagine what sort of questions were being put to her cousin did not stop Emma from trying.
Sir Arthur said very little to her once Mr. Gardner left the room. She worried about his ashen complexion and hurried to get him a glass of port when he requested it. He asked her when she first had gone to visit Mr. Gardner and if there had been only one meeting. He did not chide her for not applying to him for advice or assistance before she went. Emma suspected her uncle knew now that he’d done nothing to make her think he would welcome her approach.
She’d watched Sir Arthur absently massage the swollen knuckles of his right hand as he contemplated what he’d learned. It seemed to her that he aged a full decade as he sat there, the chair growing bigger while he grew smaller. Creases that usually appeared about his eyes when he smiled were deeply and permanently etched when a smile was no longer in evidence. His eyes were flat and unfocused; she could not even say that he was seeing something in his mind’s eye. He seemed to be seeing nothing at all.
“What is to be done about Marisol?” he’d asked. And because the question had been directed more to himself than her, Emma hadn’t answered. She’d left quietly, suspecting long minutes would pass before Sir Arthur realized he was alone.
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