Adam shook his head. “Oh, I see it so often now that I recognize the earliest symptoms. But common sense should have been enough, even then.” His hands moved restlessly over his knees. “If I had been thinking of Lydia, rather than myself…”
“What do you mean?” Vic asked, puzzled.
“I had another agenda, you see,” he said, not meeting Vic’s eyes.
“I don’t understand.”
“It all sounds ludicrous … too ridiculous. But what harm can it do now, other than make me look as big a fool as I did then?” He pinched his lips together in a self-deprecating grimace. “I was
“In the beginning? You and Lydia?” Vic heard the surprise in her voice and silently cursed herself. She couldn’t afford to alienate him now. “Of course,” she added quickly, “what could have been more natural? And when she didn’t seem to be terribly unhappy, you thought—”
“Well, it was all a long time ago, and hopefully I’ve grown less foolish in my dotage.” He set his empty sherry glass down on the butler’s table in a deliberate way that suggested he’d had enough of talking as well.
He was the same age as Nathan, Vic thought, and yet she had the sudden impression that he felt life had defeated him.
“Adam,” she said, before he could politely terminate their interview. “What about the second time Lydia tried to kill herself? Did she have the same symptoms of depression or disassociation? Surely there must have been some indication—”
“I wouldn’t know,” he interrupted her. Then, as if afraid he’d been too sharp, added, “I was gone by that time. Kenya. Teaching in a mission school.” Standing up, he went to the bookcase behind the love seat and took something from the shelf. “One of my students made this for me.” He held out a small pottery vase for her inspection. It was clear glazed, the color of sunburnt skin, and black-etched antelope ran endlessly round its circumference.
“It’s lovely.” Taking it from him, Vic closed her eyes and ran her fingers over the surface as if she were reading braille. “It reminds me of a poem of Lydia’s, the one called ‘Grass.’ I always wondered where the images came from. Did you write to her?”
Adam shrugged. “Occasionally. The evenings could be very long. I suppose she didn’t save the letters?”
“If she did, I’ve not seen them among her papers,” Vic said, not sure whether that would please or hurt him, but she felt a spark of hope on her own behalf. “Did she write to you, by any chance?”
“Yes, but we had a fire in the mission not long before I came back to England. I lost most of my personal belongings, such as they were, and Lydia’s letters were among them. I’m sorry,” he added, and Vic knew her disappointment must have shown.
“Never mind,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure it was a much greater loss for you than it is for me. But I wonder…” She hesitated to push him, but on the other hand she’d best make the most of her opportunity. “Do you remember anything odd about her letters before—”
“She ran her car into a tree?” For the first time, Adam sounded angry. “What a bloody stupid thing to do. I heard afterwards that she said she just lost control, but I never believed it for a minute. She was a good driver, very focused, as she was on most things she undertook to do well.”
“But the letters—”
“I wasn’t privy to anything but the most innocuous gossip,” Adam said, and stood up abruptly. “If you want to know about her state of mind, you had better ask Daphne.”
CHAPTER
6
In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and
know, a space,
Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of
old, your face.
RUPERT BROOKE,
from “Choriambics-I”
