The Ellie Hardwick Mysteries by Barbara Cleverly Read Free Book Online Page B

impress them with my war-like spirit, I’m afraid. I got out. It wasn’t for me. I’m more the arty type like my mother was. She died five years ago.’
    â€˜And in spite of all Taro had done, you were still prepared to go ahead with the marriage?’ I couldn’t hide my incredulity and disapproval.
    His face softened. ‘You never knew her, did you? It’s hard for those who didn’t know her to understand. She was magic . . . well, she magicked me anyway. She was a bit mad, ruthless even and she could be a ferocious little bitch (I knew it). But the magic made all that of no concern. Made! Christ! It continues to work! She’s gone—but I can’t believe it.
    â€˜I loved her. And there was another reason. She was pregnant. Not very, but enough to make us name an earlyish date.’ He sighed. ‘No illegitimate children were ever acknowledged in the Hartest family for six hundred years. Not going to start now, though Taro wouldn’t have cared I suppose.’
    He fell silent, deep in thought, and then he began to fidget. ‘Look, Dad’ll be down soon and he won’t be amused to see me still in my bathrobe. He thinks I’m pretty dissolute . . . I’ll just go upstairs and get kitted out. Stay here, I won’t be a minute. Oh, and better turn that computer off.’
    I was left alone but for the company of a Jacobean Hartest whose harsh white face under a black periwig stared down at me watchful, austere and calculating from its gilded frame. I felt a sadness so oppressive that I put my head in my hands and tried to force back tears. Two innocent lives had been lost on that marble slab this morning. The girl and her unborn child were unknown to me but I mourned them. And, underlying the sorrow, was a barely understood suspicion of the Hartest men and their motives. I looked at my watch and wondered how much longer I would have to wait here. I found I really didn’t want to have any further dealings with this family. Three generations of trained killers were loose in this house and one of them was ruthless enough to have got rid of an inconvenient little trollop. I looked again at the photograph of the table tomb, at the frozen features and flowing hair of the lovely Aliénore and I understood that an ancient tragedy had sent its echo on through the centuries to be replayed in front of my eyes this spring morning.
    * * *
    How soon could I get away from this place? I listened anxiously for the sound of a police car. My thoughts were redirected by Rupert. He slipped back into the room, smelling of herbs and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a white tee shirt. He tapped a finger on one of the photographs of the Lady Aliénore.
    â€˜Always puzzled me this,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent hours in church on Sundays looking, enchanted, at this figure and there’s something about her I’ve never understood. Dad says you’re an art historian? Well, tell me, Ellie,’ he indicated the flowing hairstyle of the stone image, ‘in all the other table tombs I’ve seen the ladies have their hair gathered up into a head dress . . . Why is this one different?’
    Should I tell him? Would he want to hear? I’ve never been able to keep knowledge to myself. ‘That’s the key to the whole mystery, Rupert,’ I said. He looked genuinely at a loss so I went on, ‘In these times it was the fashion for women to have their hair dressed and caught up in concealing coifs . . . if you were a respectable, married woman that is.’
    â€˜But Aliénore was all that! What are you trying to say?’
    â€˜That in those days this sumptuous spread of tresses was seen as the outward badge—the emblem if you like—of a common prostitute. Whoever put this here knew it and wanted succeeding generations to know it too. Sir John was announcing this to the world in sculpture. Vilifying his wife for eternity. An obscure but