excellent brandy, rich cigars, and even richer jokes. He had fully intended to keep the same roseate glow all evening, and to discover Adelina in such mind was distinctly dampening. He tried to jolly her out of it; after all, women wept so easily, it was probably nothing of significance.
“Don’t you feel very well?” he said cheerfully. “Never mind, it’ll pass. Take half a glass of brandy, pick you up no end. I’ll join you.”
To his surprise she agreed, and a few minutes later they were in the withdrawing room, curtains closed against the night, sharing the warmth of a considerable fire. Suddenly Adelina began weeping again, dabbing a handkerchief to her eyes.
“For goodness’ sake, my dear,” he said a little sharply. “Pull yourself together! Nothing is helped by sniffling.”
She gave him a bleak look and wiped her eyes harder.
“I can only presume that you do not know,” she said indignantly.
“I do not,” he agreed. “And if it makes you as miserable as you look, I do not wish to. If some sort of calamity has befallen someone, I’m sorry, but since I cannot help, I am happy to remain ignorant of the sordid details.”
“It is your duty to know!” she said accusingly.
He started to protest, but she was not to be stemmed.
“Helena Doran has been found!”
“Is that cause for weeping? She ran off. If she now does not like her circumstance, that is a pity, but hardly our responsibility!”
“Dead!” Adelina let the word fall like a damnation. “She has been dead for two years, sitting there on the swing seat in the garden of the empty house, all by herself, just as if she were alive. She must have been murdered, of course!”
He did not wish to believe it; it was horrible, a rude and ugly disturbance of all that was safe and comfortable, all that he liked.
“Why ‘of course’?” he demanded. “She could have died of a heart attack, or a seizure, or something.”
“She was with child!”
“You mean they’ve done a post mortem?” he said in surprise, and some disgust. “Already?”
“She was barely more than a skeleton,” she began to weep again. “There were bones. Nellie told me.”
“Who is Nellie?” Nobody came to mind.
“The scullery maid. Can’t you even remember your own servants’ names?”
He was genuinely surprised.
“Why on earth should I? I don’t suppose I’ve ever seen her. I’m sorry about Helena, but really my dear, it is a most gruesome subject. Let us discuss something else. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it.” He had a sudden inspiration. “And we don’t want to upset the children. They will know if you are distressed. It is hardly something we would wish them to know about.” It was actually a ridiculous hope. Chastity at least would discover it in great detail, in fact probably already knew: but it sounded both sympathetic and wise to say so.
Adelina looked at him dubiously, but she did not argue.
Reggie settled down to a pleasant evening by the fire, a good dinner, a little port; and perhaps just a touch more brandy. Helena and her affairs were beyond help now, so there was nothing to be gained for anyone by dwelling on thoroughly unpleasant subjects such as corpses in wet gardens, and murders, and the like.
However, his peace was broken about nine o’clock when the butler brought a new bottle of port, and announced at the same time that Dr. Bolsover had called to see him.
Reggie sat up and opened his eyes.
“Oh well, you might as well send him in,” he said reluctantly. He was not really in the mood for conversation, but Freddie was an easy fellow, well mannered, fond of a little civilized conversation, and a good port. “Bring another glass, will you?”
“I have done, sir. I’ll ask Dr. Bolsover to join you. Mrs. Southeron is still upstairs.”
“Oh good. Yes, thank you. That’s all,” he reclined again. No need to hitch himself up and be formal for Freddie, thank goodness.
Freddie came in a moment later, elegant in a wine-colored smoking jacket that complemented his fair face.
“Evening, Freddie,” Reggie said indolently. “Help yourself to a glass of port. Filthy evening, isn’t it? Still, fire’s good. Sit down.”
Freddie did as he was bidden, and with a glass in his hand, settled in the chair opposite. He sipped slowly, and rolled it round his mouth.
“Miserable business about poor Helena Doran, isn’t it?” he said, looking across.
Reggie was annoyed. He did not want to discuss it.
“Miserable,” he agreed succinctly. “Still, all over now.”
“Oh, hardly,” Freddie demurred with a smile.
“She’s dead,” Reggie slid even deeper into the chair. “Can’t be more finished than that.”
“It’s the end of Helena, poor girl,” Freddie agreed. He held up his glass to look at the rich color against the light. “But only the beginning of a lot of other things.”
“Such as what?”
“Well, how did she die, for one thing?” Freddie’s clear blue eyes fixed on Reggie. “And who killed her? The police are going to want to know that, you know.”
“She might have died quite naturally.” Reggie found the subject most disagreeable. He wished Freddie would leave it alone. “Anyway, not our business.”
“Police all over the place will be our business,” Freddie was still looking at him, smiling faintly. Charming fellow, Freddie, but less sensitivity than Reggie would have expected. Rotten subject to bring up in a fellow’s house over a good port.
“Not mine,” Reggie stretched his legs out. Fire really was excellent, warmed him right through.
“Oh, they’ll be onto all of us, asking questions again. Bound to.”
“Don’t know anything. Can’t help. Not a clue who her lover was. Not interested in that kind of thing. Women’s business, gossip. Ask the women, if he’s any good at his job.”
“Pitt?”
“If that’s his name.”
“No doubt he will. But he’ll ask us too,” Freddie also sank a little into the deep leather.
“Nothing to tell him,” Reggie finished the last of his port and poured some more. The room seemed to glow warmer and redder. “Nothing at all.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Suppose it wasn’t you?” Freddie said suddenly.
“Me?” Reggie had dismissed the matter and was drifting pleasantly into other things, pretty women, Jemima to be precise. Charming creature, so feminine. “What are you talking about?”
“Helena’s lover, of course,” Freddie was still faintly smiling. “Wasn’t you, was it, old boy?”
“Good God!” Reggie jerked up a full six inches in the chair. “Of course it wasn’t!”
“Just thought it might be. You do have rather a taste for that sort of thing, after all.”
“Taste for it! What in hell do you mean?” Reggie was offended. It was an ill-bred thing to remark.
“Taste for young women,” Freddie did not appear in the least abashed. “Mary Ann, and Dolly, and who knows who else?”
“Mary Ann is a parlormaid!” Reggie said indignantly. “Everyone has a fancy for parlormaids now and then, if they’re honest. And Dolly was a long time ago. I prefer not to discuss that. I thought I told you as much.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Freddie agreed. “Especially now.”
“What do you mean, especially now?” Reggie did not care for the turn the conversation was taking. “Why now?”
“Well, apparently Helena was pregnant too,” Freddie was still looking directly at him, and still smiling. “And then there are the babies in the gardens. If they knew about Mary Ann, and about poor Dolly, they might leap to the very nasty conclusion that they were all connected; don’t you think?”
Suddenly the heat of the fire scorched Reggie’s legs, and left the inside of him bitterly cold. The thought was
