the European Front.”
Pausing to down half the cucumber sandwich in one bite, he chewed for a moment, then said sadly, “What a waste it must have seemed, the flower of Britain’s manhood lost, with nothing to show for it but some newspaper headlines and politicians’ speeches.” He smiled. “But if you read Christie or Allingham or Sayers, the detective always got his man. And you’ll notice that the detective always operated outside the system—the stories expressed a comforting belief in the validity of individual action.”
“But weren’t the murders always clean and bloodless?” Gemma asked rather impatiently through a mouthful of sandwich. She’d felt too tired and unsettled to eat lunch, and her walk had left her suddenly ravenous.
“Some of them were in fact quite diabolical. Christie was particularly fond of poisoning, and I can think of no less civilized way to commit murder.”
“Are you suggesting that there are civilized methods of murder?”
“Of course not, my dear, only that I’ve always found the idea of poison especially abhorrent—such suffering and indignity for one person to inflict upon another.”
Gemma drank a little more of her tea. She rolled it around on her tongue, deciding she liked the rich, malty taste. “So you prefer your murders quick and clean, do you, Tommy?”
“I don’t prefer them any way at all, my dear,” he said, glancing up at her as he poured more tea into her cup. He was playing with her, teasing her, she could see it in the suppressed laughter in his eyes.
Tommy Godwin sat quite still, watching her, his hands relaxed on the tabletop. What beautiful hands he had, thought Gemma, the fingers long and slender, the nails perfectly kept. She found quite inconceivable the idea of him fighting like a common ruffian, using those hands to choke and squeeze, or perhaps to hold a thrashing body under water.
“You’re quite right, my dear,” he said softly. “It was tasteless of me to go on that way, but crime novels are rather a hobby of mine.” He picked up a watercress sandwich and looked at it a moment before returning it to the plate. The eyes that met hers were a surprisingly dark blue, and guileless. “Do you think poor Connor suffered?”
“We don’t know. The pathologist didn’t find evidence indicating he’d inhaled river water, but that doesn’t rule it out.” She let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, then added, “I was hoping you might tell me.”
His eyes widened. “Oh, come now, Sergeant. You can’t think—”
“You lied to me about attending the opera that night. One of the ushers saw you come in from the street just minutes before the performance ended. And I have a witness who can place you in a pub in Wargrave, having a not-too-friendly dinner with Connor Swann,” she said, tendering her bluff with all the authority she could manage.
For the first time since she had met him, Tommy Godwin seemed at a loss for words. As she studied his still face, she saw that most of his attractiveness lay not in his individual features, but in the expression of alert, humorous inquisitiveness that usually animated them. Finally, he sighed and pushed away his empty plate. “I should have known it was no use. Even as a child I was never any good at lying. I had meant to attend the performance that night—that much at least was true. Then I had an urgent message from Connor on my answer phone, saying he needed to see me. I suppose he must have been looking for me when he came to the theater that afternoon.”
“He asked you to meet him at the Red Lion?”
As Tommy nodded the waiter brought their second pot of tea. Lifting the pot, Tommy said, “You must try the Keemun, my dear. What would you like with it?”
Gemma had started to shake her head when he said, “Please, Sergeant, do have something. This was to be a special treat for you—I thought hardworking policewomen probably didn’t have too many opportunities to take afternoon tea.”
She heard Alison’s words again, and she found that no matter what else Tommy might have done, she couldn’t reject this small act of kindness. “I’ll have a scone then, please.”
Having taken a scone for himself, he poured tea into her cup from the fresh pot. “Taste your tea. You can put milk in it if you like, but I’d advise you not to.”
Gemma did as instructed, then looked up at him in surprise. “It’s sweet.”
He looked pleased. “Do you like it? It’s a north China Congou. The best of the China blacks, I think.”
“Tell me about Connor,” Gemma said, spreading clotted cream and strawberry jam on her scone.
“There’s not much to tell, really. I met him at the Red Lion, as you said, and from the beginning he behaved quite oddly. I’d never seen him like that, although I’d heard stories about the weeks after he and Julia first separated. He had been drinking, but I didn’t think he’d had enough to account for his manner. It was… I don’t know… almost hysterical, really.”
“Why did he want to see you?”
Tommy washed down a bite of scone with tea. “I found out soon enough. He said he’d decided he wanted his old job back—that he’d had enough of dealing with two-bit, small-town accounts, and he wanted me to intercede for him.”
“Could you have done it?” asked Gemma in some surprise.
“Well, yes, I suppose so. I’ve known the firm’s senior partner for years. In fact, it was I who encouraged him to go after the ENO account in the first place.” He looked at Gemma over the cup he held cradled in both hands. “It’s unfortunate that we can’t foresee the consequences of our actions. If I had not done that, Connor would never have met Gerald and Caro, and through them, Julia.”
“But you refused Connor’s request.”
