“On it,” muttered Isabel.

“What?”

“On the pond. There are ducks on the pond. There are fish in it.” Even as she spoke, Isabel had no idea why she was being so pedantic, and she looked at Grace apologetically. But Grace, perhaps not noticing the correction, in her turn simply corrected Isabel. “There are no fish left,” she said. “The ducks have eaten them all.”

“I don’t think ducks eat fish,” said Isabel, her testiness returning. “They eat weed and things like that. Bits of … of sludge.”

Grace was tight-lipped. “I’ll take him upstairs.”

“Thank you,” said Isabel. “And look, I’m sorry. I’m upset about something.”

Grace looked at her with concern. “Is everything …”

“It’s fine,” said Isabel. “I’m just trying to deal with something that’s worrying me.”

“What is it?”

Isabel shook her head. “A private thing. You know how we all have worries—silly things. But they worry us.”

“And they usually are silly,” said Grace. “Aren’t they?”

Isabel nodded silently. Not this one, she thought. This is not silly.

“Go shopping,” said Grace. “Treat yourself. Go to Jenners. Buy something.”

Isabel smiled weakly. “Retail therapy?”

“Precisely. It always works.”

Isabel shook her head. “Not for me. It makes me feel guilty.”

Grace started to leave the room, carrying Charlie, who was waving a small hand at his mother. “You feel guilty about far too much,” came her parting shot. “It’s all that philosophy. How guilty they must all have felt, those people. Plato. Old what’s-his-name. And the other one, the one who couldn’t.”

She left. Isabel pondered: Which was the one who couldn’t? It occurred to her a few moments later. Kant. But she could not smile at the thought, as she normally would have done. She couldn’t.

THE GATE OF WEST GRANGE HOUSE was open. Isabel, who had walked over from her house, looked up the gravelled drive and saw that Peter Stevenson’s car was parked at the front door. But as she began to walk up the drive, Susie came out of the house holding a plastic shopping bag. She had clearly not been expecting a visitor, and gave a momentary start before she recognised Isabel.

“You’re going out,” said Isabel. “Sorry—I should have phoned.”

Susie went forward to meet her. “Not at all. I was just nipping out to the supermarket and I can do that any time. No, I mean it. Come in.”

Reassured, Isabel followed her back into the house. Susie said that she would make coffee and they should both go into the kitchen. “Peter’s in there. He’ll be pleased to see you.”

“I’m sure you’ve both got things to do,” said Isabel.

“We haven’t.” They were making their way down the corridor that led to the kitchen, and Susie suddenly stopped. Lowering her voice, she asked Isabel if everything was all right. “Is there anything …”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “There is.”

“I could tell,” said Susie. “There was something in the way you looked.” She gestured towards the door that led into the drawing room. “Would you prefer to be in there?”

Isabel hesitated. It was, in a sense, woman’s business, but she wanted to talk to Peter too. She shook her head. “Both of you,” she said. “I wanted to talk to both of you. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” She took Isabel’s arm, gently. “Come on.”

Peter was surprised to see her, but immediately realised from Susie’s manner that something was wrong. He had been sitting at the kitchen table filling in a form of some sort, and he rose to his feet as Susie and Isabel entered. “An unexpected pleasure,” he said, folding the form and slipping it into a plain manila file on the table. “Bureaucracy. Forms. There are forms for absolutely everything these days. Permission-to-breathe forms.”

“Don’t jest,” said Susie. “There’s probably some official drafting one right now.”

Isabel made an effort to smile. “I suppose that having so many bureaucrats, we need to find something for them to do.”

Peter agreed. “Work expands to fill the time of the people you employ to do it. It’s ever thus. Coffee, Isabel?”

Isabel sat down at the table. She was aware that both Peter and Susie were looking at her in a solicitous manner. For a few moments, nothing was said. Susie took the kettle and filled it under the tap; Peter moved the file on the table so that it lined up with a crack between two planks.

It was Peter who broke the silence, clearing his throat and then, hesitantly, asking whether there was anything wrong. He did not want to pry, but he wondered …

Isabel looked down at her hands. “Yes, I’m afraid there is.” She looked up and felt a sudden flood of gratitude to her two friends. In the lives of most of us there are a few people to whom one can go at any time, in any state of mind, and expect complete, unconditional sympathy. Peter and Susie were such for her.

She started to tell them. She explained how Eddie had made the comment in an offhand, incidental way. “He was absolutely certain that it was Jamie,” she said. “And I’m equally certain that Jamie said that he was rehearsing that night. I remember it very clearly because I asked him what they were playing and he said it was a dreadful programme that he couldn’t stand and he didn’t want to be there.”

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