The Complete Ravenscar Trilogy: The Ravenscar Dynasty, Heirs of Ravenscar, Being Elizabeth. Barbara Taylor Bradford

sofa. They sat down together, and John went on, ‘How’re you feeling this evening? A little better, I hope.’

      ‘Oh yes. I was waiting for Father O’Donovan, but perhaps he is late. Mmmmm. Ah well, never mind. And how is your father? Haven’t seen him lately.’

      Before John could respond, Margot said, ‘Now John, Henry, shall we have a coupe? A little champagne will be good, no? A healthy drink, my grandmother told me.’ Without waiting for an answer she rang the bell on her desk.

      ‘That will be nice,’ John responded at last.

      Henry said nothing, had lapsed into silence on the other end of the sofa, his eyes already closed. He was drifting with his pious dreams.

      The butler appeared in the doorway. ‘Can I be of service, madame?’

      ‘Oui, Turnbull. Champagne please.’

      He inclined his head and left.

      Margot moved towards her husband. ‘Henry, Henry, are you tired? Are you sleeping?’ She bent over him, solicitous.

      Henry Grant roused himself and sat up straighter. ‘Tired, yes, I think I shall go back to my room.’

      ‘I will help you,’ she murmured in a kindly tone.

      ‘No, no, John will accompany me.’ He turned to his cousin in a helpless way, and then smiled faintly. ‘Please.’

      ‘Of course, Henry,’ John replied at once and took hold of the older man’s arm, led him out of the library.

      Margot stood in the middle of the floor, fulminating inside. Men. They were impossible. Henry was a pious, ineffectual idiot; John Summers was a fool. He believed the words of this stupid policeman Laidlaw, believed the coroner’s verdict. She was right. She knew it. The Deravenels had murdered Aubrey Masters, and they were getting away with it.

      At this moment John came back into the room, followed by Turnbull with the silver bucket of champagne on a silver salver, and crystal flutes.

      Within seconds they were both toasting each other with the sparkling wine, and went to sit together on the sofa. Margot made a tremendous effort to curb her anger, and said more softly, with a light smile, ‘And did Henry have secrets to confide in you, John darling?’

      He shook his head and answered swiftly, frowning. ‘He wanted to talk about Edouard. He says he wants me to take him down to Eton to visit his son.’ John eyed her carefully, through appraising eyes, always curious when he mentioned the boy who might be his father’s bastard, his half-brother. ‘What do you think of that?’

      ‘It’s a splendid idea,’ she answered, not in the least put out. ‘He has not displayed much interest in Edouard lately. Will you do it?’

      ‘Naturally. But you will accompany us, won’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer he leaned into her, kissed her full on the mouth. ‘It will be unbearable if you don’t,’ he added.

      ‘I shall come with you. And my life is unbearable without you. I need to see you alone, chéri, be with you.’ She dropped her voice. ‘I need to be with you in your bed, in your arms. Ah, John, my life is empty, miserable without you…’

      Placing his glass of champagne on a side table, he then did the same with hers. Drawing closer, he pulled her into his arms, began to kiss her passionately. She responded with an ardour that more than matched his, and then suddenly pulled away. Against his cheek, she whispered, ‘It is not safe here. Let’s go out. Now. Take me to your house…please. Please.’

      He did as she begged, longing for her just as much as she longed for him. Within minutes they were in his carriage driving across town.

       THIRTY

      The streets of Whitechapel were dark by the time Amos Finnister arrived there, and after paying off the hansom cab he went in search of his favourite pieman. All afternoon he had dreamed about one of those wonderful meat-filled pies, oozing gravy, and he was now determined to have one, if not indeed two.

      Sometimes the vendor had his cart set up on Commercial Street but tonight there was no sign of him. Amos knew he would be around somewhere in the area and set off to find him. He did so ten minutes later; he spotted the cart and the most fragrant smells wafting towards him announced that it was the same chap he had patronized before.

      Sure enough it was, and the vendor greeted him with a cheery grin, said in his breezy Cockney way, ‘Evenin’, guv, I knew yer’d be back ’ere again. Best pies, that I ’ave.’

      ‘You certainly do, and my compliments to your wife. I’ve never found any more delicious than hers. I’m even tempted to buy two tonight.’

      ‘Go on then, sir,’ ave a splurge.’

      Amos nodded ‘I think I will.’

      The vendor lifted a pie out of the tray with the metal tongs, showed it to Amos and put it in a small white bag, dipped a ladle into a pot, added thick beef gravy on the crust. He followed the same procedure with the second pie, then placed the two white bags into a larger one made of brown paper.

      Reaching into his pocket, Amos brought out fourpence, handed the money over, and took the bag. ‘I’ll be back next week, all being well.’

      ‘See yer, guv,’ the vendor said, and saluted, grinning as he did so.

      Amos walked through the streets until he found the small cul-de-sac where he had eaten his pies in the past. It was a quiet spot, a bit off the beaten track; a gas lamp nearby added illumination to the area. As he put the bag of pies on the wall and sat down, Amos glanced around. Immediately he noticed the old wooden cart, which hadn’t been there before. Somebody had obviously dumped it; without wheels, it was dilapidated and certainly of no use to anyone in its present state.

      Taking a pie out of the bag, his mouth watering, he bit into it at once, savouring that first bite. Like this area, the pie reminded him of his father and the carefree time of his childhood long ago. That was the reason he liked to come to Whitechapel so often these days. For the memories.

      He had only taken a second bite when he heard a strange mewling sound, like a small animal in pain. He looked around his feet, scanning the ground, but there was no stray dog or cat in sight. There it was again, the mewling. Amos glanced toward the cart and was completely taken aback at the sight of a small face peering over the edge. Light-coloured eyes were just visible under a flat cap, were enormous in the dirty face; the mouth was distorted as if the small boy was in some sort of pain.

      Putting the pie down, Amos jumped up, walked across to the cart; instantly, the boy scurried away from the edge, cowering, afraid.

      ‘Now, now, what do we have here?’ Amos asked in a soft voice, smiling, not wishing to frighten the child any further.

      There was total silence.

      He said again, ‘So, what do we have here then?’

      ‘Nuffin’,’ the child answered, ‘nuffin’.’

      ‘Oh, but I think you’re something.’

      ‘Ain’t. I’m nuffin’.’

      ‘My name’s Amos. What’s yours?’

      ‘Liddle Bugger.’

      ‘No, no, come along, lad, it can’t be that. Tell me your name.’

      ‘That’s wot ’e calls me.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The man,’ im as kicked me out, kilt me muvver,’ e did.’

      Amos felt the hackles rising on the back of his neck, and an involuntary shiver ran through him. He asked in the same gentle voice, ‘Where do you live, lad?’

      ‘’ere.’

      ‘In