LITMIR.BIZ

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toyed with her soup. “I thought it might be possible for you to do a bit of detective work whilst we are there. I should like to know the disposition of the estate. If Jane is going to require assistance, legal or otherwise, I should like to know it before the moment is at hand. Forewarned is forearmed,” she finished, not quite meeting his eyes.

      Brisbane signalled the waiter for more wine and we paused while the game course was carried in with the usual ceremony. Brisbane took a moment to make certain his duck was cooked to his liking before he responded.

      “A solicitor could be of better use to you than I,” he pointed out.

      “Than we,” I corrected.

      Again he raised a brow in my direction, but before we could rise to battle over the question of my involvement in his work, Portia cut in sharply.

      “Yes, of course. But I thought it would make such a lovely end to your honeymoon. Jane’s letters are quite rapturous on the beauties of the Peacocks.”

      “The Peacocks?” My ears twitched at the sound of it. Already I was being lured by the exoticism of the place, and I suspected my husband was already halfway to India in his imagination.

      “The Peacocks is the name of the estate, a tea garden on the border of Sikkim, outside of Darjeeling, right up in the foothills of the Himalayas.”

      “The rooftop of the world,” I said quietly. Brisbane flicked his fathomless black gaze to me and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. “Of course we will go, Portia,” I assured her.

      Her shoulders sagged a little in relief, and I noticed the lines of care and age beginning to etch themselves upon her face. “We will make arrangements to leave as soon as possible,” I said briskly. “We will go to India and settle the question of the estate, and we will bring Jane home where she belongs.”

      But of course, nothing that touches my family is ever so simple.

      The Second Chapter

      On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.

      —On the Seashore

      Rabindranath Tagore

      It was not until we were almost halfway to India that I manoeuvred enough time alone with Portia to pry the truth from her. Plum was busily occupied sketching a pretty and penniless young miss bound for India to marry an officer, and Brisbane was closeted with the ship’s captain, both of them behaving mysteriously and pretending not to. Portia had evaded me neatly during our preparations for leaving Egypt, but I knew her well enough to know she had not made a clean breast of matters at the dinner table at Shepheard’s, and I meant to winkle the truth from her once and for all.

      She settled herself upon the small private deck attached to my cabin where I had lured her with the promise of a luscious tea en famille. She glanced about. “Where are the menfolk?” she asked, her voice touched by the merest shade of anxiety.

      “Plum is flattering an affianced bride and Brisbane is very likely doing something which will result in our quarrelling later.”

      “I thought we were taking tea together,” she commented, watching me closely.

      I narrowed my eyes. “No, we are quite alone.”

      She made to rise.

      “Sit down, Portia. And tell me everything.”

      Portia subsided into the chair and gave a sigh. “I ought to have known you would find me out.”

      “I have every right to be furious with you. I know you have intrigued to get us to India under false pretenses, but you might at least have told me why. I presume it does have to do with Jane?”

      She nodded. “That much is true, I promise you. And I am worried about the estate. Nothing I told you in Egypt was a lie,” she said, lifting her chin.

      “Yes, but I suspect you left out the most important bits,” I protested.

      She clamped her lips together, then burst out, “I think Freddie Cavendish was murdered.” She buried her face in her hands and did not look at me.

      I swallowed hard against my rising temper and strove to speak gently. “What makes you believe Freddie was murdered?”

      She lifted her head, spreading her hands. “I do not know. It is a feeling, nothing more. But Jane’s letters have been so miserable. She felt so wretched after Freddie died, so low that she felt compelled to write to me even though she feared I would not reply.” Her expression softened. “As if I could refuse her anything. After the first few months, she began to feel a little better, but there was always a sadness to her letters, a sort of melancholia I had never seen in her before.”

      “Of course she is melancholy,” I burst out in exasperation. “Her husband is dead! She is all alone in a strange land with people whom I suspect would just as soon not see her safely delivered of her child.”

      Portia shook her head slowly. “I could not pry too deeply. I did not want to raise fears in her that she might not have, but the more I read, the more troubled I became. She does not feel safe there, nor happy. And if there is a chance that Freddie was murdered, it is most likely he was killed for the inheritance.”

      “And if Freddie was killed for the inheritance,” I began.

      “Do not say it,” she ordered, her green eyes cold with fear.

      “Then his child may be in danger,” I finished. “I think you may ease your mind upon one point. Jane is in no immediate peril.”

      She bristled. “How can you possibly know that?”

      “Think, dearest. Murder is a tricky business. One tiny detail missed, one vital clue dropped, and it’s the gallows. No, a clever murderer would only strike when absolutely necessary. With Freddie out of the way, there is no need to harm Jane. She might well be carrying a daughter, in which case, whoever meant to put Freddie out of the way need only wait and let time and nature and the law take their proper course. But if the child is a boy, well, killing an infant seems vastly easier than killing a grown person. One need only smother the child in its cradle and everyone would put it to natural causes. Even if the worst has been done and Freddie was murdered, there is no call for any harm to come to Jane. It is only the child, and then only a male child, who might be in danger,” I reassured her.

      Portia shook her head slowly. “I cannot be convinced. Let us presume for a moment that Freddie was murdered. What if his killer grows impatient? What you say is logical, but murderers are by nature impetuous. What if he grows tired of waiting and decides to settle matters now? No, Julia, I cannot be at ease about Jane, not until I have seen her for myself. I mean to be on hand when Jane delivers her child, and I mean to protect the pair of them,” she said fiercely.

      I put my hand to hers. “And in the meanwhile, you want us to find out what happened to Freddie?”

      “If Freddie was not murdered, then Jane and her child will be safe,” she said simply. She hesitated. “There is something more.”

      I sighed. “I ought to have known there would be.”

      “I do not want Jane distressed. If it has not occurred to her that Freddie might have been murdered, I do not want to put thoughts into her head. You must exercise discretion.”

      “So I am to investigate a possible murder without actually revealing it to the widow?” I asked, gaping a little.

      “Only until I have had a chance to broach the subject gently with her. Give me a little time to determine her state of mind, and then you may involve her, but not before.”

      Portia’s expression had turned mulish, and I knew that look well. I threw up my hands. “Very well. I will be as discreet as I am able until you tell me otherwise.”

      Portia nodded in satisfaction. “I knew I could depend upon you, dearest.”

      We lapsed into silence then, listening to the slap of the

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