The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,17

turn it into some kind of jest—”

“Not at all!” Lord Peter protested. “I was merely trying to silence this crowing cock so you could proceed.”

“I’m not sure I’ve the stomach for it,” said Lord John grimly. “However—! My wife further informs me that she lives in New York City, in America, and that she—” he hesitated, then concluded in a voice without inflection, “lives there in the year 1974.”

Even the voluble Randall was struck silent.

After a pause, Lord Peter asked quietly, “And the doctor?”

John shrugged. “Observe—wait . . . I don’t know what to think. She—asked me to help her.”

Randall exploded angrily. “Well, I know what to think! If you’ll forgive me, or even if you won’t, John, I’ll tell you what I think!”

“Oh, Lord,” murmured Peter.

“I think,” persisted Randall angrily, “that she’s playing another of her tricks on you, John, and I wouldn’t stand for it. The whole town’s talking—”

“Am I to suppose, from that, that you have made all of London conversant with my private affairs?” asked Lord John, stiffly.

“You are to suppose no such thing, Johnny,” corrected Peter. “Take a damper. This little cock crows loud, but never clucks a word about anything important.”

“Well, thank you!” gasped the cock, much affronted.

Lord Peter continued, “You know we don’t talk, Johnny, but as your closest friends, we—know things have been . . .”

“Bound to,” agreed Randall. “Peter was your second at that duel—”

Lord Peter ignored him. “How can we help you?”

Lord John shrugged, spread his hands.

Peter said slowly, “You loved her once, and she loved you enough to marry you—”

Randall sneered. “Fustian!”

“No, let him speak, Randy.”

Peter continued quietly, “You say she is appealing to you for help on strange grounds. Surely if she were trying some trick, she would never have offered such an insane story. For one thing, it puts her at your mercy. With such evidence, you’d have no trouble putting her away under restraint.”

“She knows that. And she sticks to her story.” He got up and paced around the room. “She’s different.”

“In what way?” Randall was still suspicious.

“Her voice is changed and she uses a different vocabulary. It’s —uncanny, hearing that voice from Nadine’s mouth.”

Peter got up and joined his friend at the window. “Would you like us to come around and speak to her?”

Randall frowned and shook his head at this rash offer, but Lord John accepted gratefully.

“Thank you, yes! You’ve both met Nadine, talked with her. Dr. Anders had never seen my wife before—she was never sick a day in her life—so he wouldn’t notice a change even if there was one.”

“We can’t just go bursting into Lady Nadine’s bedroom,” objected Randall. Then he caught Peter’s eye and blushed.

Peter spoke hastily. “We’ll go tomorrow. Bring flowers and all that. Warn your people to expect us, Johnny.”

Lord John smiled at him ruefully. “Thank you. I know you’ll hate it, but I have to be sure. You see, Bennet says my wife’s frightened—and innocent.”

Randall’s laugh grated harshly. “Tell that to someone who was not your second at the duel last month. Was it an innocent caused you to get that scar on your face?”

“Be quiet,” commanded Lord Peter sternly. “We’ll go, John.”

“Just talk with Nadine. Tell me if I’ve been wrong.”

Randall snorted. “Can’t you see that’s what she wants? To confuse you? To work on your sympathies till you relinquish your plan to send her to Ireland?”

“The young cock has a point, Johnny,” admitted Lord Peter. “There is a chance she may be trying to create a reasonable doubt in your mind, so you’ll—”

“Take her off the hook?” interrupted John with the ghost of a smile.

“That’s very good! Where did you pick it up?” asked Randall, struck by the phrase.

“From my wife. She says it’s common usage in the twentieth century. She has a number of interesting turns of speech.”

Lord Peter rested his hand briefly on his friend’s shoulder. “Tomorrow at two.”

“Thank you. And you, Randy? Will you accompany our Peter to make sure his soft heart doesn’t betray his sober judgment?”

“Soft head is more like it,” grumbled Randall, rising and pulling the bell-rope for his servant. “We’re off to Tattersall’s to look at the horseflesh. Will you join us?”

“No, I’ve one more call to make. There is someone who may know a great deal about this situation—”

“Another doctor, John?” interrupted Randall. “Do you go to secure a second medical opinion?”

“No, I’m going to the House of Parliament. There’s a man there who may have some answers. Edmund Burke. He’s political secretary to Lord Rockingham. If