the same.”
Now he was confused. He did not know what else to add. He had almost forgotten why they had spoken of friendship at all. It was something to do with Byam-yes-Byam and Anstiss. The pain of exposing Anstiss’s grief that Laura’s death had been suicide, because she loved another man.
“It is very horrible,” he said aloud. “I expect he would hesitate, whoever it was-an old friend or not. The friendship would simply make it the more painful to himself, it would not alter the other person’s grief.”
“Frederick?” She smiled very slightly and turned away. “No, of course not. Sometimes I think Sholto is overly protective of him-of his interests, I mean. He still feels this gnawing guilt for Laura’s death, and it colors his behavior, I am sure.” She smiled, but it was a sad, worried little gesture, without happiness. “Debts of honor can do strange things to people, can’t they? Especially if they can never be repaid.”
He said nothing, seeing from her expression that she had not completed her thought.
“I wonder at times,” she started again, “if perhaps Frederick is aware of it. He can be so funny, such an excellent companion, and then quite without warning he will say something thoroughly cruel, and I can see that Sholto is deeply hurt. Then it is all over again and they are the best of friends.” She shrugged, as if pushing the thought away as foolishness. “Then again, it is probably just that Frederick is less subtle with words. When people are close, sooner or later they will hurt each other, don’t you think? Simply because we use so many words, so easily, I suppose it is inevitable we should be clumsy, or take a meaning where it was not intended. I do it myself, and then wish I could have bitten my tongue out before being so stupid…”
She stopped, seemed to brace herself, and then began again, not looking at him but at the window and the deepening light on the trees rustling in the sunset wind. “If it is hurting Frederick that fills him with such horror, I can understand it very easily. But perhaps he will have no alternative, in the end, but to expose Weems’s murderer and risk his telling everything, at his trial, if not before. I-” She hunched her shoulders and tightened her hands, her fingers knotted in the soft fabric of her skirt.
Instinctively he leaned even closer to her, then stopped. He had no idea whether she was aware of him or not.
“I wonder whether he knows who it is?” she went on, her voice very low and a thrill of horror in it. “And if it is not a stranger, not some poor debtor from Clerkenwell, but a man he has some acquaintance with, even some sympathy for-and that is why he is so reluctant to expose him? That would explain a great deal.”
She shivered. “It would be easier then to understand why he is in such an agony of mind. Poor Sholto. What a fearful decision to have to make.” She turned back to Drummond, her eyes wide. “And if Weems would blackmail Sholto, then he would as easily blackmail someone else, wouldn’t he?”
“We believe he has,” he agreed quietly, Addison Carswell in his mind, and a new shadow of pity. What a miserable and futile waste of life and all its wealth. Over what? An infatuation with a pretty face, a young body and a few hours of an appetite and a dream that could never last.
She saw the distress in his face and her expression changed from hope to sorrow.
“You know who it is?” she said in little more than a whisper.
“I know who it may be-”
In the beginning she had said “the least awful possibility.” Neither of them spoke the most awful-that Byam had killed Weems and his fear was dreadfully and sickeningly for himself. He would not say it now.
It was getting late. The quality of the light was beginning to change, deepening in color, and already the shadows were across the floor and creeping up the brilliance of the far wall, lighting the peacock fire screen. He did not want her to leave, and yet he was afraid if he offered her refreshment she would realize the hour and excuse herself. But what else could he ask her?
“Mr. Drummond-” She turned around towards him, rearranging her skirt.
“I have not offered you anything by way of refreshment,” he said quickly, his voice louder than he had intended.
“Oh please do not put yourself to inconvenience. It is most kind of you to have spared me your time, and at this hour. You must be tired.”
“Please! Allow me to repair my oversight.”
“It is not necessary, I assure you. You have been most patient.”
He stood up and reached for the bell and rang it furiously.
“I have been very remiss. I would like some refreshment myself, and it is far too early for dinner. Please permit me to redeem myself.”
“No redemption is required,” she said with a smile. “But if it would make you feel more comfortable, then I will be glad to take a little tea.”
“Excellent!” His spirits soared and he rang the bell again and immediately Goodall appeared, his face politely inquiring.
“Tea,” Drummond said quickly. “And something…”
“Yes sir.” Goodall withdrew, his face expressionless.
Drummond sat opposite her again, wondering what to discuss. The formal part of her visit seemed to have exhausted itself and he had no desire at all to pursue the subject. He wanted to know more about her, but it seemed too crass simply to ask. He had not felt so awkward with anyone since before he had been married, when he was a young man raw to the army, and not even having thought of the police force for a career. He could remember balls and soirees then when he had felt this tongue-tied and desperate for something casual and charming to say.
Before the silence grew oppressive she rescued him. No doubt it was easy for her, with a relationship which hardly mattered.
“This is a most pleasing room, Mr. Drummond. Have you always lived here?”
“No-no, I lived in Kensington before my wife died.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I expect you miss her very much.”
“It is some years now, but yes, there are times when it seems very silent, and I imagine what it would be like if she were here,” he replied truthfully. “She was…” He looked at her and saw only interest in her face. He had thought he would not wish to tell her of Catriona, that it would be somehow disloyal, but now that it came to the moment it was not. In fact it seemed a very natural thing to do.
“She was so vivid. She looked at me so directly.” He smiled at the remembrance. “Her father used to criticize her for it and say it was unbecoming in a woman, but I found it honest, as if she were interested in everything and would not stoop to pretending she was not. She liked bright colors, all sorts of reds and glowing blues.” Involuntarily his eyes went to the peacock screen. “I recall once, years ago, she went to dinner in a gown of such a fierce flame color that she was noticed immediately when one entered the room.” His smile broadened. It was all so much easier than he had expected, so much more natural. “Looking back it was rather ostentatious, which was not what she meant at all. She simply loved the color and it made her feel happy to look at it. We laughed about it afterwards. Catriona laughed very easily, she enjoyed so many things.”
“It is a rare gift,” Eleanor said warmly. “And a very precious one. Too much happiness is lost because we spend our time regretting the past and seeking for the future and miss what we are given for the moment at hand. The gift to be happy is a blessing to all around. Do you have a picture of her?”
“She disliked the camera. She felt it caught only the outer person, and she did not care for the way she looked…”
Surprise flickered across Eleanor’s face.
“The person you describe sounds so lovely I had imagined her beautiful.”
“Catriona?” He was a little surprised. “When you knew her, she was. She had lovely eyes, very dark and wide, and shining hair; but she was a very big woman. After our daughters were born she seemed to become bigger, and never lost it again. I think she was more aware of it than anyone else. I certainly was not.”
“Then it hardly matters, does it?” Eleanor said, dismissing it. “Catriona. That is an unusual name. Was she Scottish?”
“Yes-as my father was, although I was born here in England.”
Goodall returned with a tray of tea and sandwiches and their conversation was interrupted while it was set down.
Goodall poured and passed the cups and the plates, then withdrew again.
“We have talked enough about me,” Drummond said, dismissing himself as a further topic. He was keen to hear
