drink for judges and old ladies. They made small talk. He asked about the Hall’s extravagant lighting scheme and learned that it was the one thing on the property that came cost-free; Arnside was self-sufficient in electricity, from a hydroelectric plant of Sir Owain’s own manufacture. Its turbine was driven by the very same torrent that emerged to feed the falls below the house.
A few minutes later, Sir Owain’s driver appeared in the doorway. Only now he was out of his chauffeur’s livery and wore a white jacket with a starched apron over.
He said, “Dinner in five minutes, please, gentlemen,” and withdrew again, after which they took their unfinished drinks through into the dining room.
Another fire burned in here, keeping back the autumn night’s chill. The dining room had oak paneling and green flock wallpaper. An oriental theme ran through its decor, with woven cane in the dining chairs and fringes on the light shades. The capstan table had several of its sections removed to reduce its size, and there were place settings for three.
“In case you’re wondering,” Sir Owain said, “our Thomas is a first-class cook.”
“Though his range can be a touch limited,” Dr. Sibley suggested.
“Give the man credit,” Sir Owain said. “None of your fancy French sauces, but he can shoot, hang, and burn a bird with the best of them.”
“And thank God for it,” Sibley said, drawing Sebastian’s chair out for him, “because dear old Cook wouldn’t have been able to drive the car to save her own life.”
“All the same,” Sir Owain said, “I was sad to let her go.”
Sebastian said, “What happened?”
“No fault in the woman, just sheer financial necessity. No one believes it when you sit on an estate and plead poverty, but the land and the house just suck in cash. If you don’t farm and your tenants don’t pay, then what do you feed it with?”
“There must be some kind of a solution. I imagine you could sell up and live well in a smaller place. Or at least rent out this house.”
“See if he listens to you,” Dr. Sibley said sorrowfully. “He won’t to me.”
“But where would I settle?” Sir Owain said. “That’s the question. There’s no welcome for me in London. Not since the unpleasantness at the Royal Society. And this is the only real home I know.”
As well as driver and cook, Thomas Arnot was their server for the evening. The dining-room doors opened and he came in pushing a trolley, on which there was a white cloth and a plated copper tureen. He lifted the tureen onto the table and left them to it.
Dr. Sibley raised the lid on a rabbit consomme, releasing steam and an agreeable aroma, and Sir Owain said, “Mister Becker, I hope I’m not being inappropriate in mentioning it, but are you in mourning?”
“I am,” Sebastian said. “How did you know?”
“We get the London papers here,” Dr. Sibley said, showing some skill with the ladle.
“My dear sir,” Sir Owain said. “I’m devastated to hear of your wife’s passing.”
“Thank you.”
From then on, Sir Owain played the perfect host. Dinner consisted of a good pheasant each and a lot of easy conversation. The decanter passed around the table and Dr. Sibley was induced to tell some tales of his seafaring days as a ship’s medic in the Caribbean seas, prior to his meeting with Sir Owain. One of them had a supernatural theme, but he told it with a twinkle in his eye.
Though Sebastian was itching to see their talk move on to more germane matters, a part of him was wishing for a world where all could be as it appeared, and where he could enjoy this evening as much as his companions did. He had not known such masculine company, without issues or pressure, in a long time, and had never missed it so much as he did now.
Toward the end of the ghost story, Sir Owain’s man came in. He waited until the tale was over before clearing the plates and the bones.
He said to Sir Owain, “Will you need me for anything else tonight, sir?”
And Sir Owain said, “No, Thomas. Just bring us the pudding and the rest of the night’s your own.”
Dessert was a dish of vanilla-flavored cream. When they were done, Dr. Sibley started to collect their crockery together.
“Oh, leave it, man,” Sir Owain said. “Thomas will deal with all that in the morning.”
“Not on a Sunday, he won’t,” Dr. Sibley said.
“It can wait until Monday, then.”
“So we just close the dining-room doors on all the mess? And what will your guest think of us if we do?” He said it with a wink to Sebastian, who could imagine that the mariner in him was offended by such untidiness.
With good humor, Sir Owain pushed himself back from the table and let the physician get on with his domestic business. Sibley piled up the dessert dishes with Sir Owain’s barely touched portion on top.
Sebastian said, “May I have the use of your telephone? There’s a call I ought to make.”
“Come to my study,” Sir Owain said. “You can have some privacy there.”
Sebastian was led to the book-lined room where he’d conducted his first interview with the industrialist. The typewriting machine was still on the desk, but he saw no telephone until Sir Owain reached down and produced one from the drawer.
After making sure that Sebastian knew how to get a connection, Sir Owain withdrew. Within a few minutes Sebastian was speaking to Stephen Reed, who’d been awaiting this call.
Sebastian said, “All’s well. But it’s not the night we were hoping for.”
“No confession?”
“The pair of them are being downright sociable.”
“Don’t lower your guard,” Stephen Reed warned him.
“No, of course not. But I’ve watched Doctor Sibley account for most of a decent Burgundy, and if a man doesn’t make a slip after that, you start to wonder if there’s a slip to be made.”
As if in ironic counterpoint to his remark, at that moment there was an offstage crash from somewhere in the direction of the kitchens. The sound of breaking crockery is unique and was easy to identify.
Sebastian said, “I suspect that was him.”
“What should I do? Wait up for you?”
“No,” Sebastian said. “They’ve just dismissed their driver, so I imagine I’ll be offered a bed for the night.”
“Be sure you lock the bedroom door.”
“I’ll have a chair under the handle and my revolver under the pillow,” Sebastian said. “Don’t lose any sleep over me.”
At that point, he became aware of Sir Owain standing in the doorway. He hadn’t even heard the study door open. How long had the man been there? What had he heard? Sebastian quickly finished the conversation, ending it with a few neutral pleasantries that alerted Stephen Reed to the change in his situation.
When he saw that the call had ended, Sir Owain came fully into the room and settled himself into the second chair, across from Sebastian.
“So,” he said.
“So indeed,” said Sebastian, uncertain of where this was going.
“There was a piece of moving-picture film? What did it show?”
“Nothing conclusive,” Sebastian said. “Something or someone rushing at the camera.”
“Do you know who or what?”
“I’m in no position to say.”
Sir Owain said, “I know what your real suspicions are. You want to know if I could have killed those children. So do I.”
Sebastian started to frame a reply, then stopped. Sir Owain seemed entirely serious. Sebastian said, “
“I don’t know,” Sir Owain said.
“But are you telling me it’s possible?”
“My heart says no. But I’m a scientist. I have to start by accepting that everything is possible, and then be guided to a proper conclusion by the evidence. Evidence-based thinking, Mister Becker. The greatest single
