A Corpse in Shining Armour. Caro Peacock

I can’t see how that poses a unique problem,’ I said.

      ‘It might be if his claim to the title were in question.’

      ‘How is it in question?’

      ‘The usual way–that he might not be his father’s son.’

      ‘This sounds even worse than the divorce case. Am I meant to be going through rumpled sheets from twenty-three years ago?’

      ‘If only it were that easy. It’s a matter of hints, gossip–nothing tangible.’

      ‘So people have been hinting and gossiping for twenty-three years?’

      ‘No, that’s the strange part. The hints and gossip have only begun quite recently.’

      ‘Since people knew the old lord was going to die soon?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Do we know who started the gossip?’

      ‘We have a very good idea.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘The young men’s mother.’

      I nearly dropped my teacup.

      ‘The elder boy’s own mother is saying he’s not her husband’s son?’

      Disraeli nodded.

      ‘But why should she admit it after all these years? And what about the younger one?’

      ‘She’s quite adamant that the younger son’s legitimate.’

      ‘But that doesn’t make sense. If a woman’s going to be unfaithful, it’s usually the later children who…’

      I didn’t finish the sentence because it was straying into things that should not be said.

      ‘Indeed.’

      ‘Does she say who the father was, if he’s not her husband?’

      ‘As far as I’m told, she takes a somewhat legendary line,’ Disraeli said. ‘There was a storm one night on their honeymoon tour. She was alone in her room in a tower by a lake in Italy, waiting for her husband to return from a visit. A man entered, at the height of the storm, without lighting a candle. She naturally assumed it was her lord and master come home and…well, you can guess the rest. In the morning, his place in the bed is empty and she thinks he’s gone out early to admire the view. Imagine her horror when her husband arrives some hours later, mud-splattered on horseback, explaining that he decided to stay the night with friends because of the storm.’

      ‘It’s like something from a bad Gothick novel.’

      ‘I gather the lady in question is fond of novels. She also paints and writes poetry.’

      I stared at him, still disbelieving.

      ‘Of course, there is precedent for it,’ Disraeli said.

      ‘Precedent?’

      ‘You may remember that something very similar happened to the lady in the Greek myth of Amphitryon. And our own King Arthur was born of just such a visit by Uther Pendragon.’

      ‘May we please keep to the nineteenth century. Are you suggesting that this woman’s head has been so turned by novels and myths that she’s denying the legitimacy of her own son? Is she insane too?’

      ‘That’s probably the question the case will turn on.’

      ‘Case?’

      ‘Miss Lane, you can surely see what will happen if the old lord dies before this question is resolved. It will end up in court, and not just any court, either. A question like this would have to be submitted to the House of Lords.’

      He sounded serious again, so I had to put out of my mind the entertaining picture of their lordships in coronets and ermine debating the story I’d just been told.

      ‘What about the younger son? He surely wouldn’t want to see his mother and his brother put through this.’

      ‘I understand that there’s no great brotherly love between them. The younger boy has always been his mother’s favourite. He takes after her, while the elder brother bears some resemblance to the father and took his father’s side when husband and wife fell out.’

      ‘But that would make no sense at all, if he’s supposed not to be the father’s son,’ I said. ‘And if he looks like his father, surely that settles the matter?’

      ‘Not conclusively. There’s a fairly general family resemblance within the English aristocracy, wouldn’t you say?’

      He smiled at me and flicked one of his very un-English raven ringlets back from his face with a hand that glinted with gold rings.

      ‘So it’s quite possible that the mother is making all this up to try to ensure that the younger one inherits,’ I said.

      ‘Yes, that’s the other possibility.’ Disraeli sighed. ‘It almost makes one wish that there were some way of testing the blood for paternity, the way that scientists test for acid or alkali.’

      ‘If such a test existed, the whole of Debrett’s would probably have to be re-written,’ I said.

      I was doing some hard thinking. There was no doubt that he’d succeeded in piquing my curiosity. At that point, I’d met none of the people involved and it presented itself as an interesting puzzle.

      ‘If I were to investigate, who would be my client? The elder son?’

      ‘Not directly. I’ve been approached by a lawyer of excellent reputation who was the elder son’s trustee, up to his twenty-first birthday, and is still trustee for the younger son for another few months. He’s a family friend as well as their legal adviser. He’s very concerned that the thing should be halted in its tracks before it becomes public knowledge.’

      ‘But if it’s gossip already…’

      ‘Gossip is one thing. Lawsuits are another.’

      ‘So the lawyer would be paying my fee?’

      ‘Yes, and I don’t think there’d be argument about anything you considered reasonable.’

      ‘What exactly would he expect me to do?’

      ‘He hoped you might make the acquaintance of the lady in question and encourage her to talk to you.’

      ‘To a complete stranger, about the most intimate things in her life?’

      ‘People usually seem willing to talk to you. You have a gift.’

      ‘And having gained her confidence–goodness knows how–I’m supposed to report to you and the lawyer on whether she’s mad or scheming?’

      ‘That’s a reasonable summary. I’ll admit, we haven’t given much thought to the details. I simply promised my friend to see if I could persuade you to take an interest.’

      I stood up.

      ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said, not knowing that I’d be saying the same thing to another unorthodox invitation two days later.

      That was when he told me, in confidence, the family name. I left him sitting under the picture, alone for once, looking like a man who thought he’d done a good evening’s work.

      I walked home that evening to Abel Yard, my dear but rackety home in Mayfair at the back of Park Lane. The front of Park Lane is one of the most desirable addresses in London, facing directly on to the eastern side of Hyde Park, with dukes by the dozen, peers ten-a-penny and the whole of society coming and going in carriages with liveried footmen on the back. But spin those mansions round, like a child with a doll’s house, and the scene at the back is altogether more domestic, with narrow slices of workshops, sheds and dwellings crammed with carriage-makers, carpenters, glaziers, bonnet trimmers, pastry cooks, cows, chickens–all the things that the great houses need for their comfort