Page 24 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

R ooms told stories, Victoria knew. Houses, however, spoke volumes.

When compared with the grandeur of London, Kensington was a modest village. But Dr. Maton’s establishment was a luxurious one, clearly meant to convey that he could easily have settled into the city’s rarified atmosphere had he chosen to do so.

It was a tall, modern house on the high street, built of warm red brick with fresh white trim.

The windows sparkled in the blazing summer sun, and the marble steps were immaculate.

The house had two doors, the first being plain and black and leading to a low wing off the main residence.

This would be the entrance to the surgery.

The second, painted green, led to the house itself.

The knocker had been muffled in black crepe. Lady Charlotte went up the stairs first and knocked for Victoria and Mama. They were admitted at once by a footman dressed all in black, even to the ribbon in the queue of his powdered wig.

All of them stood aside and made their reverences as Victoria climbed the steps and crossed the threshold.

Dr. Maton, or his wife, it seemed, had a taste for the dramatic as well as the expensive.

The entrance hall was tiled in marble, paneled in immaculate white up to the chair rail, and painted a pale blue above. The effect was airy, modern, and very uncomfortable.

Like walking into a cave of ice.

In that stark space, the man in black frock coat and trousers stood out as sharply as a silhouette on white paper.

She could see at a glance that this must be one of Dr. Maton’s sons.

He had thinning hair, a round face, a form that was already sagging toward middle age, all of which reminded Victoria sharply of her former physician.

He bowed deeply to Victoria.

“Your Highness, your grace,” he said. “It is a great honor to receive you. If I may present myself? I am Dr. Julius Maton.”

“Thank you, Dr. Maton,” said Mama. “Her Highness wished to deliver her condolences to your mother personally, and to express her gratitude for your father’s excellent care of her and of all our family.”

“Yes, of course. My mother and brothers are in the parlor. If you will step this way?”

They followed him. The theme of pastel walls, marble tiles, and white trim was carried through the ground floor of the house.

The black crepe around the banisters and picture frames made midnight slashes across the icy background.

Gray outlines on the painted walls showed where mirrors had been removed.

In the parlor heavy drapes had been drawn. The hot, still air was thick with dust and a dragging chemical smell, which Victoria knew meant death itself. Heavy carpets had been laid down to muffle their footsteps. The only light came from the candles at the coffin’s head and foot.

Victoria tried to picture this room filled with light and laughter and the sounds of company, perhaps with tea or music, and found she could not.

Chairs draped in black cloth had been set at an angle so the persons sitting vigil could stand to greet the mourners as they arrived but not block the coffin. As Victoria entered, Mrs. Maton and her two remaining sons rose at once and made their reverences.

The Matons were a pale family. Victoria thought that when they were not in mourning, they must fade away in all these pastel rooms.

As a girl, Mrs. Maton had doubtlessly been the perfect English rose—all pink and white, with golden hair and sparkling sapphire eyes.

Now the blush had faded from her cheeks, her sapphire-blue eyes were watery, and the hair under the black cap was turning white as the marble tiles.

But there was still a strength about her.

Mrs. Maton held herself stubbornly straight, as if she refused to be bowed by her grief.

A grim face , thought Victoria. She is grieving, yes, but there’s something else . . .

“Your Highness, your grace,” Dr. Julius Maton was saying, “may I present my mother, Mrs. Phillipa Ashdowne Maton?”

Mama approached Mrs. Maton and touched her hand.

“Mrs. Maton, I am sincerely sorry for your loss. Your husband was a good man and a dedicated physician. I always felt myself in the very best of hands when he was with me.”

Mrs. Maton lifted her gaze, took a quick glance at Mama. There. Victoria saw a flash in the widow’s eyes. It was not grief. Not in the least.

It was resentment.

And it was gone. The widow dropped her gaze.

“You are most kind, your grace.”

“May I also present my brothers?” said Julius Maton. “Dr. Marcus Maton and Dr. Gerald Maton.”

Ironically, both of his brothers were taller than Julius, who Victoria assumed was the eldest, since he had taken the duty of performing the introductions.

All three brothers shared the same round build, pasty skin, faded eyes, and thinning fair hair.

Had these men been in a ballroom with five hundred other guests, one would have known instantly they were all from one family.

The middle brother, Marcus, was staring at Mama. There was something hungry in that look, and Victoria did not like it. Mama did not even seem to notice.

By contrast, the youngest brother, Gerald, was watching his own mother.

Was he afraid she might commit some impropriety?

That, perhaps, she might break down and cry?

He had the same round face as his brothers, and his double chin had already begun to form.

It was a face made for joviality. But there was nothing jovial about him. Neither was there any sign of grief.

Gerald Maton was quietly, unmistakably furious.

He did not approach his brother or his mother but stayed beside the coffin, as if he thought the ladies from the palace were resurrectionists come to steal his father’s body.

Victoria could not help noticing the ribbon attached to Gerald Maton’s watch chain, with the end tucked into his waistcoat pocket.

She felt sure there must be a pince-nez attached to that end.

Mama was assuming a sympathetic air. “Your sons will surely be a great consolation to you,” she said to Mrs. Maton.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am. They have ever been my comfort. My husband was often from home, you see, with the medical household.”

“Men have many calls to answer. We can only wait and be patient.”

“Yes, your grace.” There it was again, that flash of resentment. A prickle of cold skittered across Victoria’s skin.

“It was your husband who attended mine during his final illness,” Mama told her. “No one could have been more diligent.”

Gerald Maton did not like this remark. He, of course, said nothing. But the sharp, bright flush on his round cheeks betrayed the intensity of his unspoken feeling.

Mama had fallen silent, which gave Victoria space to speak. She had spent all last night and much of this morning trying to decide how to proceed. She could not count on a moment alone with any member of the family, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t discover anything.

She could begin by making a statement she knew to be untrue.

“But his end was a peaceful one,” she said. “That must be of some comfort.”

Victoria waited to be contradicted, but to her surprise, Mrs. Maton simply lowered her gaze.

“Yes. Dr. Maton died in his bed, in his sleep,” she said. “It had been a long and troubling illness, but we all believed he would pull through.”

The words were pious, and unexceptional. But they were also oddly bland and stilted.

Studied?

“What a comfort that all his family was able to be with him,” Victoria prodded.

Mama was not happy with her little sallies. Of course, she could not silence Victoria in front of the Matons, but Victoria felt the smothering weight of her silent disapproval.

“Yes, indeed, ma’am,” said the widow, and the words were still bland, still oddly stiff.

“A great comfort.” There was a pause and a glance toward her husband in his coffin.

A wistful, beseeching expression flickered across her pale face.

“He had planned to retire, to assist our son in his practice, and write his memoir.”

It was the first genuine thing she’d said. Victoria was sure of it.

Gerald’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for something. Or perhaps make a fist.

Mama, it seemed, had had enough of Victoria’s curiosity. She grabbed Victoria by the elbow and steered her toward the coffin.

“Come, Your Highness. Let us pay our respects.”

Dr. Maton lay inside the padded box, immaculately dressed and carefully posed, his eyes closed and arms folded.

Victoria tried to picture him on his side in the rain, deflated and cold.

It was growing increasingly difficult. Was that really the curve of the shoulder she had seen?

And was that the hair—thinned and gray, showing that mottled scalp? Doubt assailed her again.

Mama bowed her head in prayer. Victoria did, as well, but she also shot a sideways glance toward Gerald Maton.

The youngest Maton son glowered at the remainder of his family. They all ignored him. His older brothers flanked their mother, looking more like guards than consoling sons. Mrs. Maton kept her hands folded in front of her and her eyes pointed rigidly ahead.

Mrs. Maton refused to be cowed either by the fact of her husband in the coffin or by the undisguised anger of her youngest son. But just in case, her older sons meant to make sure she did not put one foot out of line.

Odd that they were so concerned about their mother breaking down— or breaking ranks? —but that they did not seem to spare a thought for their brother.

Why is that? She had no answer, but Victoria knew what she must do next.

Mama murmured, “Amen.” Victoria lifted her head. Before Mama could turn her away, Victoria faced Gerald Maton.

“Dr. Maton, I hope that you will accept this small token.” She pulled the little paper bundle from her reticule and held it out to him.

“Oh, Your Highness . . .” Mrs. Maton stepped forward.

Victoria did not acknowledge her. Instead, she pressed the packet into Gerald’s hands, and of course, he could not refuse to receive it.

“I shall keep you and your family in my prayers,” she told him before he might feel he had to say something. “Good-bye and may God bless you. Mrs. Maton.” Victoria faced the widow. “Thank you for allowing us to pay our respects today. We will not intrude upon your grief any further.”

Since she had announced that they were leaving, there was nothing for anyone in the room to do but make their reverences and murmur their thanks. Victoria snuck one more look at the youngest Maton brother. Gerald had already put the packet into his coat pocket.

Julius Maton showed them to the door and stood on the step while the footmen helped Victoria and Mama back into the carriage. Lady Charlotte and Lady Flora were handed into their separate vehicle.

The door closed. Mama turned to Victoria. She was not pleased. Victoria braced herself.

“What did you give that man?” Mama demanded.

“A sketch I made of Dr. Maton. I thought the family might like to have it.” Please, don’t let her have noticed the odd shape or that the packet was too thick just to be a paper sketch....

“Humph,” Mama snorted, but Victoria could see her anger had already deflated. “Well, you should have given it to the widow or at least the eldest son.”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Victoria murmured. “It was only that he looked so very distressed. I wanted to do something for him.”

“Sympathy is not a reason to ignore proper conduct,” said Mama sternly. “Still, that was very thoughtful.” She gave Victoria an indulgent smile. “This has been a good day’s work.” She patted Victoria’s hand. “I’m proud of you, dearest.”

Victoria let herself smile. She hoped she looked modest. She hoped she did not show any sign of the triumph she felt. The truth was she had picked Gerald because the grieving Mrs. Maton and her eldest son were so very clearly working to conceal . . . something.

Gerald Maton, on the other hand, burned to talk.

And now I must arrange a time for him to do so.