Farrier's Lane by Anne Perry Page A

can enlist her help.” She knew Gracie admired Great-Aunt Vespasia intensely. Vespasia had been one of the leading beauties of her day, and had all the unconscious dignity and charm of total confidence, a biting wit, and an utter disregard for convention. Gracie had met her when she had called upon Charlotte and sat in the kitchen, fascinated by the impedimenta of washday, which she had never seen before. To Gracie she was a creature of magical dimensions.
    “Oh ma’am, that’s a wunnerful idea.” Gracie applauded, her face shining. “I’m sure she’ll ’elp, if anyone can.”
        It was an hour later that Charlotte arrived in Gadstone Park and was admitted by Vespasia’s parlormaid, a girl Pitt had found in a workhouse in a previous case, and recommended to Vespasia. Then the girl had looked like a shadow; now the color had returned to her skin and her hairwas a shining coil on her head. She had learned Vespasia’s preferences well enough to know that Charlotte was to be admitted at any time. She did not call on trivial social issues, only if there was some urgent adventure afoot, or some extremely interesting story to relate.
    Vespasia herself was sitting in her private withdrawing room, not a reception room for visitors but a smaller, quietly furnished room full of light and boasting only three chairs, upholstered in cream brocade and with carved woodwork. A close-haired black-and-white dog lay on the floor in a patch of sun. She appeared to be something like a lurcher, a cross between whippet and general collie, with perhaps a touch of spaniel in the face. She was highly intelligent, but lean, built for running, and irregularly marked.
    As soon as Charlotte came in she wagged her long tail and moved closer to Vespasia.
    “Charlotte, my dear, how pleasant to see you,” Vespasia said with delight. “Don’t mind Willow, she doesn’t bite. She’s a complete fool. Martin’s bitch got out and this is the result! Neither fish nor fowl, nor good red herring. And they were hoping to have a litter that would make good carriage dogs. They said the bitch is ruined, which of course is a lot of nonsense. But you can’t convince people.” She patted the little dog affectionately. “All this little creature does is stand in every puddle God made and jump about like a rabbit.”
    Charlotte bent and kissed Vespasia’s cheek.
    “Well, sit down,” Vespasia ordered. “I assume since you have come unheralded and at a most unusual hour that you have something remarkable to say?” She looked hopeful. “What has happened? Nothing tragic, I see from your face.”
    “Oh.” Charlotte felt abashed. “Well, it is—for those concerned …”
    “A case?” Vespasia’s clear, almost silver eyes were bright under her arched brows. “You are about to meddle, and you wish my assistance.” There was a smile on her lips, but she was not unaware that no matter how bizarre or testing of the intelligence and the wits, a case meant alsofear and loss to someone, and the far deeper tragedy of a life perverted and twisted out of all the happiness it might have had. Since chance had forced her acquaintance with Thomas Pitt, she had seen a darker side of life, a poverty and despair she had not perceived from her own glittering social circle, even in the political crusades for which she worked so hard. She had enlarged her own capacity for pity, and for anger.
    None of this was necessary to explain between them. They had shared too much to need such words.
    Charlotte sat down, and the little dog came over to her, sniffing gently and wagging her tail. She patted its soft head absently.
    “Judge Stafford,” she began. “At least it is half …”
    “Half?” Vespasia was nonplussed. “You are half concerned with his death, poor man. The obituary said he had died suddenly in the theater. Watching a romance, a somewhat trivial work to be the last earthly engagement of so distinguished a luminary of the bench. Now that I come to