*Regrets?' I asked, the words sc.r.a.ping harshly in my throat.

His face softened slightly. *Nay, la.s.s. We did what we had to. What will come will come.'

*You didn't have to,' I said.

*Aye, well, I couldnae let you do it alone now, could I?'

The joint burdens of guilt and responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders and by the time we reached London I felt their weight so badly I feared I would not be able to stand upright.

When we arrived back at the hotel it was past tea time, but before the dinner hour. The train journey had left me s.m.u.tty and dirty as steam travel will and I did not feel equal to meeting Mr Bertram in my dishevelled state. I suggested to Rory that we left a message at the reception that we had returned and would await his convenience, with a suggestion that we would be happy to see him after dinner.

*Good idea,' said Rory. *He's bound to be angry. But if he's angry and hungry then we have no chance of getting him to hear us out.'

*I could see him alone,' I said.

Rory shook his head. *This is going to take both of us. It's not every day you tell a man he has an illegitimate sister.'

*A dead illegitimate sister,' I corrected. *I only hope he believes us.'

One of the luxuries of staying in a hotel, no matter how small a room you have been given, is hot water on command. After I had soaked my weary body in its warmth I realised how very hungry I was. I rang up reception and asked them to send me up an omelette and salad. I asked if there was any message for me and was told not.

I had almost finished an omelette light and fluffy enough to have been worthy of Mrs Deighton when my door opened without a knock. Mr Bertram stood in the doorway, a bottle of wine and two gla.s.ses in his hand. I half-rose, but he waved me back to my seat. *Don't trouble yourself, Euphemia. You obviously no longer work for me, so I have brought you a gla.s.s of wine to toast your new endeavours. Am I to wish you and Mr McLeod joy?'

I saw at once that this was not the first bottle he had opened this evening. *No, there is nothing of that nature,' I said carefully. *I do indeed hope to remain in your employ. I have matters of great importance to tell you. I am sorry I could not take you into my confidence before, but you were heavily engaged with poor Miss Wilton's funeral observations.'

Mr Bertram sat down opposite me. Although my room was more than adequate, having a small table and two chairs as well as the usual bedroom furniture, it suddenly seemed rather cramped. He placed the gla.s.ses down and poured wine sloppily from the open bottle into both. *Where did a maid learn to talk like you?' he asked. *Richard thinks you're a high-cla.s.s courtesan who is exploring a new career option. I think he remains hopeful you will forsake your G.o.dly ways and return to your true nature. But I think you remain virginal. Am I right?'

*Good G.o.d, Mr Bertram! You cannot ask me questions like that!'

*Why?' said Bertram. He leaned over the table and I could see his eyes glittering from drink. *Why can't I ask you indecent questions? You, who see fit to steal my automobile and run around the country with my brother's servants in a manner any man of good conscience would find immoral.'

*We borrowed the vehicle,' I said, *but I have done nothing of an immoral nature. I swear.' I pushed to the back of my mind how much I had enjoyed Rory's grasp on my hand. In the scheme of things I had to impart to Mr Bertram alone it seemed a small and distant thing.

*I always listen to you, don't I?' Mr Bertram said. *Before you arrived on our doorstep my family was happy. My father was alive. Cousin George was alive. Our friends had never witnessed murder under our hospitality. My brother and sister and I were all companionable. My mother spoke to me. You know, Euphemia, since her retreat to Brighton my mother no longer communicates with me? She has expressed the opinion that I have fallen into low company that is leading me astray. She means you.'

*I am going to ring for some coffee,' I said as evenly as I could. I was furious, but I knew better than to give Mr Bertram the fight he was so clearly seeking. *I have much to tell you and it would be better if you were sober.'

*I can hardly wait to hear it,' said Bertram lounging back in his chair. *Your tales are worthy of a novel.'

*Oh, come,' I said with a flare of temper. *They are never that bad.'

*Are you going to summon Rory McLeod to your rescue?'

I hesitated. I did dearly want Rory here to help me explain the situation, but I feared his presence would only inflame matters. *No,' I said. *I think we must first settle matters between us.'

*So what is going on this time, Euphemia?'

*I shall wait until you have drunk your coffee,' I said icily.

And I did. Though he gibed me with words and comments I do not now even care to remember. My father was never a heavy drinker although he had spoken to me of the evils of taking too much wine. He used to say it put an unhappy man at odds with himself and turned his malice outwards to destroy innocent targets. I clung to this memory rather than listen to the deluge of vile comments Mr Bertram uttered. I saw beyond his distress to a man who not only felt out of his depth, but was also grieving heavily for a woman who had died while in his care. If my position was uncomfortable his was doubly so.

I waited until he had finished his third cup. By this time he had begun to frown. I hoped this was a sign that he realised how very badly he had behaved.

*I am sorry about taking the automobile,' I said. *I needed to visit an asylum in the country. Mr Edward had sent me the address as a place of interest although he did not say, or perhaps did not exactly know, why. He told me only that your father had been donating heavily to the place up until his death.'

*I thought you had disregarded my order about Edward,' said Bertram sulkily. *But why would my father do such a thing?'

*It is a children's asylum and the lady who works there told us she had had the care of your father's niece, Sophy, until her removal to a London establishment.'

*What niece? All my cousins are male.'

*The asylum she was removed to was the one Miss Wilton wished to investigate.'

*What are you saying?'

*I am hoping the police have returned Beatrice's notebook to either you or her family.'

*I've been given nothing,' said Bertram. He mopped his head with his handkerchief. *I may be making a leap here, but are you suggesting that this Sophy might be my father's child and that he placed her in an inst.i.tution to hide her?'

I shook my head. *She was what they call a "six months' child". Simple and affectionate, but unable to live in the real world.'

*But her mother?'

*Was Mrs Wilson, who until recently believed the girl had died at birth.'

*Good G.o.d! That my father could have been such a fiend!'

*It may be,' I said gently, *that he mistakenly thought he was being kind letting her believe the child was gone.'

*Are you sure, Euphemia, that you are right about this?'

I noted for all the disagreements between us he did not consider that I might be lying or attempting to blackmail him. *It all fits neatly into place,' I said. *I think Beatrice suspected Sophy's existence and pushed the gla.s.s to see if she could get a reaction from Mrs Wilson. Of course, I can't know this, but I hope her notes will confirm this.'

*But however did she find out?'

*I don't know, but Mrs Wilson a that's who we travelled to see yesterday a does admit there was a child. She says she has a number of family papers that could resolve a number of mysteries we have touched upon and that she will give them up if we solve the mystery of what happened to Sophy.'

*But you know what happened to her,' said Bertram.

*I'm very sorry to tell you,' I said quietly, *but your half-sister died recently.'

*How?'

I shook my head helplessly.

*Oh no,' said Bertram. *You're not about to tell me that Mrs Wilson's attack, Miss Wilton's death and Sophy's death are all linked? You're not going to tell me you suspect ...?'

*Murder,' I supplied. *Yes, I'm rather afraid I am.'

It was at this point that Bertram agreed to summon Rory and we went over all the details again and again. I cannot say that we progressed matters except that we finally got Mr Bertram to admit that there was serious cause for concern and that it needed investigating.

*I can't condone what you did,' he said, *but I appreciate you were both acting in the best interests of the family.' He fixed his attention on Rory. *Euphemia and I have suspected my elder brother of more than one nefarious act, but I cannot imagine him killing or arranging to have killed, as he would have to have done, his own half-sister.'

*Is it more incredible than killing his own father?' I asked.

*There was never proof,' said Bertram defensively.

I dropped the point. Once, he had been certain of his brother's guilt, but that was in the heat of grief and pa.s.sion for justice. The pa.s.sage of time had tempered this and he was, like most men, keener to seek an easy resolution.

*You heard him arguing with Mrs Wilson on the evening of her attack,' said Bertram. *Is it possible he didn't know? That the revelation Beatrice unleashed caught him by surprise? My father died suddenly. Perhaps he had intended to tell us, or at least Richard, about Sophy, but never did.'

*You mean Mrs Wilson thought he knew, but he didn't?' said Rory. *Mrs Wilson said as much.'

Bertram nodded eagerly.

*With all respect, sir, wouldn't that have made him all the more likely to act?'

*But it doesn't make sense,' I said. *She wouldn't be ent.i.tled to anything under his last will, would she?'

Bertram shook his head. *If she hadn't been simple, perhaps, but no, nothing at all. The only claim she would have had on the family was a moral one. I admit Richard might have felt as an MP he would have had to settle money on her or Mrs Wilson, but he's rich enough for that not to matter.'

*But Beatrice wanted to write a story about it,' I said. *And she had convinced you to help her.'

Bertram sank his head into his hands. *I know. I know. I led her into danger. My wretched, wretched family.'

Rory coughed. *Perhaps we should all retire to rest now, sir. It's been a long day and we have much to think about.'

*Yes,' I said. *I think that would be wise. If you would be willing to request sight of Beatrice's notebook from the police or her family a whoever has it a it may make matters much clearer.'

*I need to think,' said Bertram. *I hope at the end of all this I will have reason to feel grateful to you both. I do accept that you had the interests of justice at heart.'

And with this he walked unsteadily from the room.

*Och, these Staplefords,' said Rory. *They make me regret I ever came south of the border. I'm away to my bed and you should do the same, la.s.s. No doubt yon mannie will have a fine scheme by the morning.'

The way he said "fine" made it clear he thought it would be anything but. I could not but agree. I slept fitfully, worried about what the morning would bring.

I awoke to a brilliant day with a sky of quite breathtaking blue peeping through my curtains. Looking out the window I saw the people of the city going about their business briskly and with the liveliness that such an unexpected sunny day always engenders. It was a reminder to me that whatever fills our own hearts the world continues to turn. Only a few days ago Miss Wilton would have looked out at a similar tableau from her own room never dreaming that this would be the last building in which she would sleep and that she would never see her home again.

I was in a melancholy frame of mind as I made my way down to the breakfast hall. Bertram was already seated. I was unsure of the protocol now Beatrice was gone, but it was a public place and I was posing as a lady's companion, so I took my seat by him. Rory, of course, as a butler was not able to join us.

Mr Bertram cracked the top of his egg decisively. *I have decided what our next step should be,' he said. *You and I, Euphemia, will visit Dr Frank's asylum and enquire directly what happened to Sophy. I will say I have only recently become aware of her existence due to the sudden nature of my father's death and I wish to know what became of her.'

*It is a very direct course of action,' I said.

*We will leave a note at the reception saying where we have gone. You may also send word to Edward if you wish. I shall mention this if the situation seems to become at all threatening. You see, I have thought this through.'

*But if the asylum is in any way implicated in her death what makes you think that they will admit it?' I said. *We have already met Dr Frank and he was fully aware of who you were. He showed not the slightest sign of defence or nervousness.'

*He didn't let us see around the asylum as Beatrice asked,' retorted Bertram.

*But I don't think they do that any more,' I said. *He told us they have commissioners who inspect them and who can arrive at any time.'

Bertram sighed. *You're very naive, Euphemia. A little money in the right places would ensure that the asylum always had notice of such visits. Clerks make very little money.'

*I cannot help but feel this is precipitous, sir.'

*Well, I am going after breakfast,' said Mr Bertram. *You can either come with me or wait at the hotel. So far you and Rory have done all the investigating, but this is a family matter and I must attend to it personally.'

He had a stubborn set about his jaw that I recognised. It was the same expression he had used when he had repeatedly refused to listen to my warnings about White Orchards' cellar. *I will come with you,' I said. *Please give me a few minutes to prepare.'

I returned to my room and s.n.a.t.c.hed up my coat. I then made my way to the front desk as quickly as I could. Mr Bertram was not in sight. With the help of my friend the concierge I obtained the number I needed from the operator. My hand shook as I held the telephone. After an interminable wait I was put through.

*Could I speak to Mrs Mason, please?'

*Can I say what it is about?' asked a polite female voice.

*I visited two days ago a about my daughter. She may be joining you. I'd rather not give my name.'

*Of course, ma'am.'

There were a few clicks and Mrs Mason's voice came on line. *How can I help, my dear?'

*I'm struggling with my final decision,' I said. *It really is the thought of what happens next. When she is grown. I wondered if it might be possible to speak to one of your charges who had moved on to the next stage.'

*I see,' said Mrs Mason. *There is an issue of confidentiality.'

*Of course, but you mentioned someone a Amy, was it? Who was a friend of Sophy's?'

*Yes, I did, didn't I?'

*I wondered if she is still at the same asylum that Sophy attended.'

*I have not heard she has moved,' said Mrs Mason with admirable discretion.

*Although I did wonder if she might be too upset to see me. Was what happened to Sophy recent?'

There was an intake of breath at the other end of the phone.

*The family doesn't talk about it,' I said quickly. *In the same way I imagine they will not talk about my daughter when her time comes.' I managed a little half-sob.

*It's kind of you to consider Alice's feelings. Alice, not Amy. I don't know how she will take it. Sometimes these simple souls accept matters of life and death much more easily than we do.'

*So it was recent.' I said.

*Very,' said Mrs Mason. *I do not wish to be unsympathetic, but I feel I have already said more than I should. I give you my word that should you decide to place your daughter with us I will ensure she has the very best care and attention.'

*I have no doubt of that,' I said sincerely. *Thank you.'