Twelfth Night. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ read about him in the newspaper, you see. And I think being a private enquiry agent would be brilliant.”

      I smiled. “It has its moments. But it isn’t all glamour, you know. You’ll notice everyone else is enjoying their supper whilst he’s out trying to find out who left a baby in the stable.”

      “I know,” Perdita said suddenly.

      I stared at her. “What do you mean, child?”

      She smoothed her skirts over her knees. “I mean I think I know. That’s almost the same thing.”

      Quentin laughed, dropping crumbs to his lap, and Tarquin fixed his sister with a pitying glance through his spectacles. “Really, Perdie, it isn’t the same thing at all. You oughtn’t to speak unless you know. That’s how people get sued for libel.”

      “No, it isn’t,” Quentin corrected. “It’s how one is sued for slander. Libel is what you write about someone in the newspaper. My father’s a barrister,” he told me by way of explanation.

      There was something entirely unreal about having such a serious conversation with the solemn little trio, but I ought to have expected it. Benedick’s children were highly intelligent and highly original.

      “You have a good imagination, Perdita,” I observed. I meant it as a compliment, but she did not return my smile.

      “It isn’t imagination if it isn’t made up,” she told me.

      “Who do you think left the baby?” I asked her. But she merely shook her head. I shot a look at the boys. I could have throttled them. They had dampened her enthusiasm for the story, and she would say no more. I made a note to get her alone later for a private tête-à-tête. I doubted she knew anything of significance, but it would not hurt to ask.

      “Personally,” Tarquin said slowly, “I believe it was one of Aunt Hermia’s reformed prostitutes.”

      I choked on my tea, and it was some minutes before I could speak.

      I tipped my head. “I’m not entirely certain you children are supposed to know about that.” My father’s sister had established a home for reformed prostitutes in Whitechapel, a place to help them put away their gin and bad language and learn to be seamstresses and maids. She frequently bullied her family and friends into taking them on when they had completed their training, and my own Morag was a product of the place. It was never discussed in front of the children, but I was not surprised to find they knew of it, and Tarquin gave me a pitying look.

      “Of course we know. We know masses of things.”

      “I’ll wager you do,” I assured him.

      Quentin spoke up then. “But they ought not to be wasting Mr. Brisbane’s time with babies,” he said, curling his lip. “Not when there’s a proper ghost in the village.”

      “It isn’t a ghost,” Tarquin contradicted. “It’s a witch.”

      “’Tisn’t,” Quentin argued, shooting me an abashed look. It was bad manners to argue with his host, but I could see that his passion for accuracy warred with his upbringing.

      “What’s this about a witch?” I asked them.

      They both perked up, and Perdita withdrew a little, as if accustomed to giving way to her brother. But of course, she would have to, I realised with a pang. Tarquin was her elder and a boy. Everything in civilised society had taught her that her opinions were not as important as his, her skills not as valued. I felt a rush of affection for her, but just then I saw her small, clever hand reach out and deftly slip the last jam tartlet off his plate and into her mouth. Perdita would be just fine.

      I turned my attention to the boys, who were vying politely for the right to tell the story.

      “There’s a cottage by the river, beyond the vicarage. It’s called Stone Cottage. Do you know it?” Tarquin asked.

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