Read Online The Devil's Ribbon by D. E. Meredith - Free Book Online

transformed – as if he hadn’t been speaking at all. ‘Ah, excellent. French Fancies. My absolute favourite. It’s the combination of sugar and violets I find so irresistible.’
    The maid set the rattling tray down, and began to pour the tea, saying, ‘Mrs McCarthy cannot sleep, sir, as you suggested. She heard the gentlemen’s voices and wanted to meet them.’
    A young woman came into the room behind the maid, her voice steady. ‘I am here already. Thank you, Florrie. You may leave the tea.’
    The woman was dressed in black, with skin the colour of milk and lips damson red, as if she’d been chewing them. Her eyes were swollen from crying and she begged, ‘Please, do not stand for me, gentlemen, but sit. As I shall,’ she said as she fanned herself. ‘Forgive me, I needed to speak to you but I am not so well today.’
    She found an easy chair, helped by Inspector Grey. ‘I’m not usually lost for words.’ She fanned herself a little more, as she turned to Hatton. ‘You must be the doctor from St Bart’s? My husband, sir, when will you return him to me?’
    Was it so obvious that he was the guardian of the dead? Hatton supposed it must be, as he said, ‘The body of your husband will be with you soon, Mrs McCarthy. I will deliver him myself.’
    She was twisting her fingers in agitation, shaking her head, which was a tumble of black locks, a little unkempt, as she said, ‘I haven’t yet spoken to Gabriel’s brother about the funeral and there’s no instruction in the will, but England was not his home …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I cannot yet accept that Gabriel is dead.’ Her body suddenly folded, as she let out a muted groan.
    Rather than having left the room as she’d been bid, the maid immediately sprang to her mistress’s aid. ‘You need some more tonic, madam, or some salts …’ The maid looked at the men with accusation in her face, but the widow pushed her away.
    ‘Don’t smother me. I will speak to these men. Now please, Florrie, leave me.’ Mrs McCarthy pulled herself up again, brushing down the black gown, which had ridden up a little, hinting at the slimmest of ankles, a petticoat, pushing the fallen locks away from her face.
    ‘I am calm,’ she said. ‘Perfectly.’ She looked directly at Hatton, who felt uneasy under those dark and questioning eyes. Was it her eyes? Or a particular look? What was it? Under the intensity of her gaze, he looked away, but having already stolen a glance at her face, which had made Hatton silently gasp, felt sick to his stomach.
    It wasn’t that she was exquisite. Her skin was dewy in the heat, wet with perspiration, wan with emotion – but that wasn’t it. Nor was it the groove of an elegant clavicle or the fine line of her throat. It was something else. He looked again, to see a face he was sure he knew. The cheekbones were sharper, higher. This jaw was more defiant, the lips darker, fuller. She must have seen him or felt the gaze, because instantly, her fingers fluttered across her collarbone. Hatton noted a wedding ring and looked away.
    ‘Are you quite all right, Hatton?’ It was Grey. ‘Open a window, Mr Tescalini. Our professor has also gone quite pale, but a gasp of Highgate air should cure him.’
    Hatton felt foolish. Had he been staring? He deliberately moved a little away from her, but still caught a hint of something in the air.
My God
, he thought, it was the very same. What was it? He tried to grasp it. Nutmeg. The scent she brought into the room was sweet like nutmeg.
    But still holding him with determined black eyes, she continued, ‘Tell me the truth because I’m not a child. It wasn’t cholera, was it, Professor? Do you know what killed Gabriel?’ She hesitated. ‘Do you know what caused that look of terror on his face?’ and with a slight choking sound, she buried her own.
    Trying to concentrate on the scientific findings and not on the beauty of the widow, Hatton answered as straightforwardly as he could,