Long Spoon Lane by Anne Perry

opened within moments and an elderly butler regarded her with courteous inquiry. He recognized the coat of arms on her carriage door, and greeted her by name.
    “Good morning,” she replied. “I am sure the family is not receiving callers, but I prefer to pass my letter of condolences to you rather than send it through the post. Would you be good enough to tell Lord and Lady Landsborough that they have my deepest sympathy?”
    “Of course, my lady.” He held out the silver tray and she placed the envelope on it. “Thank you. It is most gracious of you to come in person. If you would care to step inside, I shall pass your letter to Lady Landsborough. She may wish to acknowledge it.” He stepped back.
    “I do not wish to put her to trouble.” Vespasia remained on the step.
    “It would be no trouble at all, my lady,” he answered. “But if you are previously engaged, then…”
    “Not at all,” she said honestly. “I came out only for this purpose.” It would now be rude to decline. She followed him inside. There was black crepe in the hall. The long-cased clock had been stopped, the mirrors had been turned to the wall. She was shown into the morning room, where no fire had been lit. There were white flowers on the table, ghostly in the half-light through lowered blinds.
    There was nothing to do but wait until the butler should return and convey Cordelia’s thanks; then she would be free to leave. She did not wish to sit down; it seemed inappropriate, as if she expected to stay. One did not make oneself comfortable in such circumstances.
    She looked around idly, trying to remember if it had been just the same all those years ago when she had been a frequent visitor here. The bookcase had been here then, the glass reflecting back so the titles were unreadable. The picture of Venetian canals over the mantel was the one she knew. She had always thought it a genuine Canaletto, but had never been frank enough to ask. She could not imagine Sheridan Landsborough having anything less.
    The house was very quiet, as if its usual business of cleaning and errands had been suspended. The sound of horses’ hooves in the street outside was audible.
    The door opened and she turned, expecting the butler, but it was Cordelia herself who stood there. She had changed little since the last time Vespasia had seen her, perhaps a couple of years ago. There was a hint of more white in her dark hair, but in broad, handsome streaks, not a fading to pepper and salt. Her features were still strong. She was less firm of jaw; the skin of her throat had withered and even a high-necked gown could not completely hide it. Shock had bleached her face today, and naturally she wore unrelieved black.
    “It was good of you to come, Vespasia,” she said, instantly establishing a familiarity that had not existed between them for years. “It is a time when one needs one’s friends.” She glanced around. “This room is chilly. Would you prefer to come into the withdrawing room? It faces the garden and is far pleasanter.” She was allowing Vespasia the opportunity to excuse herself, and yet after such a plea to friendship, that would be a deliberate rebuff.
    “Thank you,” Vespasia accepted.
    Cordelia led the way across the hall and into a warmer, far more agreeable room. It still carried all the marks of mourning, but it was several degrees warmer, and the sunlight coming through the half-drawn curtains made bright patterns on the wine-and-blue carpet.
    Vespasia’s mind was racing as to why Cordelia had asked her to remain. They had never been friends, nor was she a woman to confide either joy or sorrow in someone else.
    They sat on huge, soft sofas opposite each other in the flickering sunlight. It was Cordelia who broke the silence.
    “Sometimes it takes a tragedy of this magnitude to make one realize what is happening,” she said gravely. “One sees things eroded little by little, and each step is so small it hardly registers in one’s