'I fear that I am the bearer of bad tidings,' he said quietly.
Penelope immediately tensed but her mother retained her poise.
'Go on, Mr Redmayne,' encouraged the latter.
'Has something happened to Father?' asked Penelope. 'Is he ill? Has some accident befallen him? Will he be detained in London even longer?'
'Let Mr Redmayne tell us, dear.'
'I will, Lady Northcott,' he said, 'but I do it with the utmost regret. What I have to tell you is that your husband will not be returning to Priestfield Place at any time. He has passed away.'
Penelope turned white and tears welled in her eyes. Reaching out a hand to steady her daughter, Lady Northcott somehow preserved her own equanimity. She searched Christopher's eyes.
'I think you have softened the news for our benefit,' she decided. 'I have never known my husband to have a day's illness. He was a picture of health.' She gestured to the portrait. 'As you can see for yourself. This was no natural death, was it?'
'No, Lady Northcott.'
'Was he killed in an accident?'
Christopher shook his head. 'It was no accident.'
Penelope's self-control went and she burst into tears, turning to her mother who stood to draw her daughter into her arms. Christopher felt cruel at having to deliver such a shattering blow to them and he averted his gaze from their grief. Lady Northcott seemed calm but there was a deep anguish in her eyes. Penelope was moving towards hysteria and her mother had to hug and reassure her before the sobbing began to ease. When her daughter had regained some of her composure, Lady Northcott looked over at their visitor again.
'What are the details, Mr Redmayne?' she said softly.
'I would prefer to spare you some of those, Lady Northcott.'
'Sir Ambrose was my husband. I have a right to know.' She saw the sympathetic glance which he threw towards Penelope. 'We both have a right to know. Hide nothing from us.'
'No,' said Penelope bravely. 'I am sorry to break down in front of you like that, sir. It will not happen again. Please do as my mother bids.'
'Very well.' He rose to his feet and cleared his throat again. 'Sir Ambrose was murdered by a person or persons unknown. His body was found in the cellar of the new house.'
'New house?' repeated Lady Northcott.
'The one I designed for you near Baynard's Castle.'
'Ah, yes,' she said, failing to cover her surprise. 'I was forgetting. That house. Please continue, Mr Redmayne.'
Christopher was as discreet and succinct as he could be but the full horror of what had occurred could not be hidden. The two of them held each other throughout and he saw the mother's arms tighten to the point where she was almost supporting her daughter. Lady Northcott's pain was confined to her eyes but Penelope expressed hers more openly, gasping aloud, sagging, swaying then gritting her teeth in an effort to master her emotions. Christopher answered their questions briefly and honestly. Realising that neither of them had any knowledge of a new London house, he took care not to mention it again.
Lady Frances Northcott drew herself up to her full height.
'Thank you, Mr Redmayne,' she said without a tremor. 'It is very kind of you to ride down here to impart this news. Would you please wait here for a little while? We need to excuse ourselves for a few minutes.'
'Of course.'
He crossed to open the door for them and they went out. Penelope was too absorbed in her own sadness to do anything more than shuffle past on her mother's arm but the latter moved with natural dignity. Christopher shut the door gently behind them. Walking over to the portrait above the mantelpiece, he looked up at Sir Ambrose Northcott and wondered why a man should spend such an immense amount of money on a house while omitting to mention its construction to his wife and daughter. It was baffling. It also put Christopher in the unfortunate position of having to deliver an additional blow to the two women. He consoled himself with the thought that he had probably handled an awkward situation with more tact and sensitivity than Solomon Creech. Had the lawyer travelled to Priestfield Place, he would doubtless have compounded their misery. x
Asked to wait briefly, Christopher was left alone for well over half an hour. Though it gave him an opportunity to explore the Great Hall and its many intriguing features, it also left him with the sense that he was now in the way.
Some sort of collapse must have taken place, he surmised, as both women struggled with their grief in private. He had a vision of Penelope Northcott, lying on her bed, crying in despair, knocked senseless by the news he had relayed to her. Christopher had an impulse to reach out to comfort her but he sensed that she was beyond solace of any kind and it was not, in any case, his place to offer it. Lady Northcott had maintained her calm in his presence but he doubted if it would last indefinitely. The most probable thing, he decided, was that both of them were so caught up in their distress that they had forgotten all about him. It would be a kindness to them to steal quietly away.
Christopher had almost reached the front door when she called.
'Where are you going, Mr Redmayne?' she asked.
'Oh,' he said, turning. 'I thought that I was perhaps intruding.'
'You were leaving?'
'It seemed advisable.'
'But I must speak to you.'
It was Penelope Northcott who had come down the stairs and not her mother. Though her face was still white and her eyes swollen by a bout of tears, she was now much more controlled and her voice was calm. She took him by the arm and led him back into the Great Hall.
'I must apologise,' she said earnestly. 'It was unmannerly of us to leave you alone for so long but we needed to ...' Her voice tailed off. She needed a deep breath before she could speak again. 'Anyway, I am glad that I came down in time to stop you going before I could add my personal thanks. I do appreciate your taking the trouble to ride all the way to Priestfield Place.'
'It was no trouble, I assure you. I felt it my bounden duty.'
'Duty?'
'Your father was very kind to me, Miss Northcott.'
'Ah, yes,' she said distantly. 'The house. You designed it.' 'My first commission.' He felt the need to soothe her. 'Your father obviously planned to surprise you with it when the house was finally built. Sir Ambrose clearly had an interest in architecture. How could he not, living in such a magnificent property as this? Yes,' he said without any real conviction. 'That must have been it. The London house was destined to be a gift to your mother. Or perhaps even to you and your future husband. It would have made a perfect wedding present.'
'Yes,' she said.
But they both knew that the notion was wildly improbable.
'Were you a close friend of my father's?' she asked.
'Not at all. I was just one of many people whom he employed. Sir Ambrose always kept his distance. To tell you the truth, he was a rather mysterious figure to me.'
'Yes,' she murmured.
'The one person who did know him was my brother, Henry.'
'Your brother?'
'Yes,' said Christopher. 'It was Henry who showed some of my drawings to your father and encouraged him to meet me. From my point of view, it was the most wonderful stroke of fortune. Until now.'
Penelope indicated a chair, waited until he was seated then sat next to him. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Now that she was alone and much closer to him, he became more conscious of her beauty. Mild excitement stirred inside him. She raised a quizzical eyebrow.