He looked annoyingly comfortable. She hoped she appeared more composed than she felt, because she felt like a felon caught red-handed, which was ridiculous. Dear Uncle Roland would consider her sense of guilt very fitting if he knew of it and knew what caused it. He could not know, of course, but absence of evidence would never lead him to doubt. He had been convinced of her depravity as soon as she moved out on her own, and that had been long before she met D'Arcy. Immorality was not a criminal offense. It just felt like it at the moment.
"Now, Inspector! I understand that—"
"Your full name, please, ma'am. For the record."
He took charge of the conversation so effectively that she found herself waiting in obsequious silence while he wrote down every answer. What did her age have to do with Edward's accident? Or her address? Or that she had been born in India, raised in British East Africa, was self-supporting, taught piano?
"Edward George Exeter is your first cousin?"
"He is. He is also seriously injured, Inspector. I was told he fell down some stairs, but I have yet to learn—"
The inspector looked up with eyes as cold and penetrating as the iceberg that sank the Titanic. “We do not know how he came to fall down those stairs, Miss Prescott. That is something we hope to establish when he is well enough to answer questions."
"You mean it was not an accident?"
"What happened to Exeter may or may not have been an accident. The other young man involved was stabbed to death. I can tell you, though, that there seems to have been no one else present at the time. As of this date your cousin has not been charged, but he is an obvious suspect in a clear case of murder."
The ensuing silence had the impact of bells. Stabbed to death? Murder?
Edward? She felt herself opening and closing her mouth like a fish.
The questions began to roll again. She did not hear them, and yet she could hear her voice answering them.
"Anything I can do to help ... caught the first train ... uncle's housekeeper sent me a telegram ... very fond, extremely fond of Edward ... more like brother and sister..."
It was unbelievable. Edward would never murder anyone! Murder was something that happened in the slums of Limehouse. Murder was Jack the Ripper or Dr. Crippen, not Edward! There had been some horrible mistake.
She must have said so, because the inspector was nodding understandably. “I know how you must feel,” he said, and suddenly he seemed avuncular and less intimidating. “Between ourselves, I am much inclined to agree with you, Miss Prescott. Your cousin seems like a very promising young man, well thought of, of good family..."
He must have asked, or she had volunteered, because she discovered that she was telling him all about their family, and about herself.
"...other sahibs fled town when the cholera arrived. My parents were both doctors, though ... sent me away and they stayed ... I don't remember them at all ... mother had two brothers. I was sent off to Kenya on the mail boat, like a parcel. Uncle Cameron, Aunt Rona ... like parents to me..."
She was telling of Africa, the only childhood she could recall ... Why should the policeman care about that? Yet he was still making notes, apparently managing to keep up with the story pouring out of her.
"And you came Home when exactly?"
"In 1906. Edward followed in ‘08, when he was twelve."
"You do not live with your uncle now, though?"
"I am of age, Inspector."
"But you have lived on your own for some time?” he asked, watching her shrewdly under bushy gray brows.
She took a deep breath. She knew the conclusions men drew when a woman lived on her own. That those conclusions were now true in her case made them no less unfair. They would have been there had she never met D'Arcy. There had been no one before D'Arcy.
"Uncle Roland is not an easy man to live with."
"Your cousin shares that opinion?"
To describe Edward's opinions of Holy Roly could not help, although they were starting to look appallingly accurate. “The relationship is cool on both sides. It was all right at first, but since Aunt Griselda died, my uncle has become ... well, difficult."
The inspector nodded thoughtfully and studied his notebook for a moment. Hooves and wheels clattered past the windows.
"Exeter rarely stayed with his uncle, even in holiday time?"
"My uncle goes out of town a lot. He ... He tends to distrust young people. He preferred not to leave us in the care of the servants. I was more fortunate. My father was survived by two elderly maiden aunts. I mostly spent my summers with them in Bournemouth.” The Misses Prescott had been reluctant to put up with their great-niece. They had had no use for an adolescent boy about the house, a boy unrelated to them.
"So he lived year-round at Fallow?"
"Not completely. Friends would often invite him to visit during the holidays. He has been to the Continent several times, France and Germany, staying with families to learn the language. The school arranges such things."
The more she could tell about Edward the better, surely? Then the police would see how absurd it was to suspect him of anything.
"You know, I don't believe Edward has ever told a lie in his life, Inspector? He—"
The policeman donned his fatherly smile. “Your family seems to have been very dedicated to the Empire, Miss Prescott. Let me see if I have them pegged correctly. Mr. Cameron Exeter, Edward's father, was a district officer in British East Africa. Dr. Roland Exeter was a missionary in the South Pacific for the Lighthouse Missionary Society, of which he is now director. Your mother, Mrs. Mildred Prescott, was a doctor in India?"
Alice laughed for the first time. “I think we all have guilty consciences. My great-grandfather was a nabob. He made a fortune in India. Loot, Edward calls it."
Leatherdale made another note. “Your family has money still, then?"
"Some, Inspector. We are by no means wealthy, though."
That might be more true than she meant it to be. More and more it looked as if Edward was right and Holy Roly had poured the whole lot into his blessed Missionary Society. She had not seen a penny of her inheritance yet. But surely that scrap of dirty family laundry was irrelevant? Surely this whole family history was irrelevant?
The policeman did not seem to think so. Was he truly on Edward's side as he had claimed, or was he somehow trying to trap her into saying something she should not? But what on earth could she reveal that would be damaging? Nothing!
"Your uncle, the Reverend Roland Exeter, is an elderly man?"
"In his seventies, yes."
"Seventy-two, actually,” Leatherdale said offhandedly. “Born in 1842. And your mother?"
Puzzled and oddly uneasy now, Alice said, “I'd have to work it out. She was thirty-eight when I was born. I can't recall why I know even that much."
Leatherdale scribbled. “So 1855 or “56. And Roland in “42. How about Cameron?"
"I don't know. I never saw them after I left Africa, remember. But he must have been much younger."
The bushy brows flickered upward. “According to Who's Who, your uncle Roland was the second son—meaning Cameron was the oldest child."
She smiled and shook her head. “I'm quite sure he wasn't! I remember how shocked I was at how old Uncle Roland was when I met him. Perhaps it's a misprint?"
"Possibly.” The inspector seemed to change the subject. “It seems odd that your adoptive parents never came Home on leave. District officers are usually granted leave every two years or so, aren't they?"