Orlando sat in his study, wading through a pile of notes for a lecture he was putting together and wondering why the sun had the nerve to be shining now. It was too late in the day to play cricket, or to dry out a pitch waterlogged in places after the deluge of the afternoon. At least he’d been fielding on the boundary when the heavens opened, so hadn’t got too wet, and although the match had been cancelled, the excellent refreshments hadn’t. Mrs. Ward had prepared a cold collation for tea—as both her gentlemen would have lined their stomachs with cakes galore—so they could dine whenever they wanted.
Which was as well, given that Jonty still wasn’t home after his afternoon tea with Ariadne Sheridan, though that was to have been followed by a little college business with the chaplain, who wanted some ideas for a variation on the harvest service. Orlando wondered if either sherry or a pint of beer would be essential to the planning process, and whether—in that case—Jonty would be able to make his bicycle advance in a straight line all the way back home.
A screech of brakes outside Orlando’s study window, accompanied by cheerful whistling, suggested that Jonty had returned, and was in a pretty chipper mood with it.
Soon his smiling face appeared round the door. “I’ve brought you a lovely present, but you have to guess what it is.”
“I’m too old for games.” Orlando looked up slowly, trying to make sure his expression didn’t belie his words. The papers neatly piled on his desk caught his eye; he’d been hard at work for too long and needed a rest. He started tidying them out of sight.
“Nobody is too old for games. Come on.” Jonty came round the desk, grabbed Orlando’s arm, and yanked him out of the chair. “You have three guesses.”
“A new set of mathematical tables?” Orlando’s slightly dog-eared copy—too well used and too well loved—also lay on the desk, looking forlorn.
“No, although it seems like that should be your anniversary present. Try again.”
“Another story by Bret Harte?” Orlando sighed, wistfully. “The Stolen Cigar Case” had been one of the best Christmas presents Orlando had ever received.
Jonty shook his head. “Alas, no.”
“Then I give up.”
“You can’t, until you’ve used up all your guesses. I’ll give you a clue. Something which would make you deliriously happy. Happier even than—” Jonty glanced over his shoulder, probably to check he’d closed the door behind him “—than a romp in bed with me.”
“A case? A case!” Orlando rubbed his hands together. “I was beginning to think we’d never get another.”
“Well, you’re wrong on that score. Dr. Sheridan has a cousin, who has a wife, who had a brother who might or might not have been murdered.”
“I think you need to explain that to me all over again, only much more slowly and with more detail. And preferably accompanied by a glass of sherry. I’ll move the chairs into best position for sharing notes.”
“You and chairs.” Jonty grinned and went off to fetch the decanter.
Orlando smiled fondly, his own words of 1905 ringing in his ears. “ The particular chair a man inhabits after high table is regarded as sacrosanct.” What a miracle that Jonty had seen behind the pomposity.
Sherry, notepads, pens accumulated, chairs drawn into position either side of a fire that was needed on an unseasonably nippy evening, Jonty began his account. As usual, he presented the conversation apparently verbatim—rather than in a logical order as Orlando would have done. As it was, he tried to note them down a little more carefully than they’d been presented to him.
“Don’t get your hopes up, though.” Jonty scratched his brow. “I can’t help feeling that even if we suspect murder was committed by Robertson or by persons unknown, we’d not be able to prove it. Still, there are plenty of little bits to intrigue us. Like, if Atherton had changed his mind about taking his own life, would he carry on visiting Dr. Robertson?”
“And why did he let himself be locked up in the same room as the man? Unless he was oblivious to the doctor’s motive to kill him.” Orlando shook his head. “We’ll have to establish whether he might have called for help.”
Jonty slapped his thighs. “This has all the makings of an unsolvable puzzle. Although I suppose you’ll relish the challenge of that.”
“The challenge, yes. And I’d be happy to satisfy us that we’ve got to the truth, even if we can’t write QED at the bottom of the solution.” Orlando smiled. “So. Mrs. Blackett first?”
“Yes, with a side dish of Wilshire while we’re there. Before our party split up, I arranged with her husband for us to visit them this weekend. They’ve got a place just outside Guildford, and I hope we can drop in to see Dr. Robertson’s housekeeper on the way home.”
“Excellent plan. Where is she located?”
“Where she was at the time, apparently. In his old house.” Jonty consulted his notes. “It seems the house was left to Robertson’s brother, who is letting it out to another physician. He took Mrs. McGinley on with the property.”
“That’s useful. Maybe we can get a peek at the consulting room itself.” Not that any evidence would remain, but maybe they’d get inspired by the feel of the place. At any rate Jonty would be inspired by that aspect, and he could look at the layout and see if that locked room was an impenetrable as it was supposed to be.
“Cui bono?”
Orlando jolted out of thoughts of secret passages and false doors. “I beg your pardon?”
“Cui bono. Who benefits?” Jonty tipped his head to one side, an indication that he was thinking. “Why would somebody want to kill Edward Atherton? Or Dr. Robertson, assuming it wasn’t him who did the deed? Would covering up a secret or putting off a blackmailer be enough?”
“You’re putting together some daft theory. I can see it in your eyes. Would you care to elucidate?”
“I was just thinking about inheritances. Who did they leave their money to? If Edward left his to Robertson, the order of death would be vitally important. We’ve a lot to consider.” Jonty smiled gleefully.
“And you’re running before you can walk. Patience.”
Jonty snorted. “That’s rich, coming from you!” He left his chair, put another log on the fire, and turned on another light. “Would you really like a Bret Harte? I’m not sure if he’s done any others in the same vein.”
“If he hasn’t, it’s a shame. Was it an inspired present or a lucky guess?”
“Inspired, naturally!” Jonty took his place again. “I knew you’d like it. No guessing necessary. How could a pastiche of Conan Doyle fail? Even I enjoyed it and I like Sherlock Holmes.”
“It was the best present I’ve ever had, I think. Even better than the Woodville Ward case.” At first he thought he’d hate the book, just as he hated Holmes, but Harte’s sly sense of humour—if such deliberate pastiche could be called sly—and his depiction of a thinly veiled Watson slobberingly obsessed with an even more thinly veiled Holmes had made him laugh aloud.
The (presumably) inadvertent use of terms such as “penetration” had added to the humour, especially when Jonty had read the story out loud in the garden one balmy evening this past summer, putting his usual emphasis on certain words. Orlando had felt forced to drag the man inside before he scandalised the neighbours. They might not exactly be love’s young dream, but a man couldn’t help feeling desires, could he?
They’d discussed before whether the original Holmes and Watson’s relationship had carried anything romantic in it, even if that romance were entirely platonic. Unlike Orlando and Jonty, who hadn’t lost their passion in their forties, Holmes had never seemed to possess the inclination towards physical passion in the first place. His affection for Watson, however, appeared—in Orlando’s opinion—to be the thing that sustained him. Maybe Harte had pondered the same thing?
“Shall I read it for you this evening?” Jonty had the sort of mischievous glint in his eye that filled Orlando with a mixture of qualms and amorous thoughts. Which would eventually prevail usually depended on how public their situation was and how much mischief was in the offing. That said, Jonty could have found capacity for mischief on a quiet Monday in a Trappist monastery.
“Hmm. It depends on how well you behave yourself in the meantime. Be useful. Find the steps which would lead to the solution for this intriguing mystery, or something. If mystery it is, I hasten to add, and not exactly what it seems to be on the surface.”
“If it turns out to be that, we can as a minimum eliminate the lady’s doubts. That itself is a solution worth reaching.”
“It is.” Orlando nodded, but he wasn’t sure he agreed. Where was the challenge in proving what had already been proved? “Maybe it’ll turn out to be suitably tortuous.”
“Perhaps.” Jonty crinkled his brow.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“Not worth a farthing. Something buzzing around the old bonce, as usual, but I can’t pin it down.”
“Something you’ve done you’d like to confess?” Orlando grinned.
“Lots and not particularly, only that’s not it.” Jonty returned the smile but he still looked troubled. “Something I’ve left undone, I think. But I’ve no idea what.”
***
The lodge to the Blacketts’ house, seen suddenly as their cab from the train station turned a corner in the road, made Jonty’s heart sing. Roses round the door, a garden awash with autumn crocuses and Japanese maples, warm stone walls, leaded light windows, and a thatched roof—it resembled the ideal of the good fairy’s cottage from some children’s tale. Hopefully that boded well for the big house.
“That’s the sort of place we should retire to.” He smiled at Orlando as their cab crept up the drive.
“I thought it’s the sort of place we already have?” Orlando frowned.
“Not that garden. Ours needs a bit of a going over to reach that height of English perfection. I shall have to get you away from Euclid and out with your spade. Ah!” Jonty pointed to the elegant Georgian house at the end of the drive. “Very nice. Only that’s not the sort of place I want to retire to. Too much work.”
“At last you’re speaking sense. I hope it’s as welcoming there as the lodge appears to be. Houses which are just for show are anathema as far as I’m concerned. Even the Old Manor, grand as it was, was a proper home.”
“Aye.” Jonty smiled in fond remembrance of his parents’ country house. Little short of a castle, it had still felt as homely as a cottage. He cast a sideways glance at his partner, who had the apprehensive—if keen—look on his face that always marked the start of a new case. Who knew what paths they’d be walking down this time?
They got out of the cab and took a deep breath before Jonty knocked.
The appearance of a neatly turned-out maid at the door—a maid with a pleasant smile and just the right mixture of warmth and deference—raised Jonty’s hopes of a pleasant visit, as did the smell of baking that pervaded the hallway where he and Orlando waited before being ushered into the morning room. Maybe some of those biscuits or cakes or whatever they were might be ushered in the direction of their stomachs? Mrs. Blackett greeted them, offered them refreshments, settled them in a pair of comfortable chairs, and apologised for her husband’s absence, saying he’d an appointment with his stockbroker that couldn’t be rescheduled.
Jonty had the notion that Mr. Blackett had deliberately arranged their interview for a time when he wouldn’t be present, which confirmed their first impression: Gerald Blackett was dubious about his wife’s theory.
“Don’t feel you need to make pleasantries or small talk.” Mrs. Blackett smiled. “I’m quite happy to get down to things straightaway.”
“Thank you. That makes our task easier,” Orlando replied, graciously inclining his head. He was at least twenty-seven percent more handsome when he was solemn, which clearly wasn’t lost on their hostess, who rearranged herself in her chair, positively blossoming.
“I’m so grateful that you’ve agreed to look into things. I want to know the truth, that’s all.” She folded her hands in her lap.
Orlando, who already had notepad and pen to hand, asked, “Did you raise your concerns at the time of your brother’s death?”
“No, although with hindsight I wish I had. Gerald kept telling me it was only the grief affecting my perceptions of events. But it wasn’t, and it isn’t, I promise you.”
“We’ll do our very best to try to clarify matters. I’m sorry if this will cause you discomfort, but we have to explore every avenue. So can you explain to us once more exactly what happened the day your brother died, as the coroner had it?” Jonty smoothed a fresh page on his notepad. “Then maybe as you interpret those events?”
“It causes me no discomfort, Dr. Stewart.” She shifted herself in her chair, straightening her back and rearranging her hands. “It’s wonderful to have somebody taking me seriously. You’ve read the papers I gave Gerald to pass on to you?”
“I have, but I—we—would like clarification on a few points, and we can’t ask questions of a written account, no matter how well presented it is. Cyanide was found to have been administered to both men. How?”
“Definitely in capsule form, because they found the bottle on the desk with some still present. Possibly they were taken dissolved in two glasses of whisky.”
“Whisky?” The arrival of liquid refreshment—though not the water of life—interrupted Jonty’s flow, but Mrs. Blackett carried on with her answer as she served coffee and biscuits.
“It had always been Edward’s favourite tipple. If he did take his life, I can imagine him wanting that to be the last thing he tasted. He’d have had to be helped to drink it obviously.”
“Thank you.” Orlando took the cup of coffee offered him. “Did he have no use of his limbs by this point?”
“Very little. And no grip in his fingers.” For the first time, Mrs. Blackett seemed distressed, clenching her hands and ignoring the cup she’d poured herself. Maybe she was afraid she’d spill it. “How awful for your body to shut down, with all the consequent indignities. It appeared to sweep through him from toe to top, leaving just his upper half working. Eventually, it was only really his head which could function. Thank goodness he could talk and eat without difficulty, although he needed help to get the food to his mouth. He used to live in London, but as he got progressively worse, I insisted he live here with us so I could make sure he was looked after.”
Insisted? An interesting choice of word. “I suppose he was cross at having to give up his independence.”
“He was. He kept on his flat in London so that he could rest there if necessary when he went to see the doctor, before facing the return journey here.” Mrs. Blackett shook her head. “He hated to have to be beholden to other people, but what choice did he have? He’d tried staying in London, but he’d never succeeded in finding someone who could deal with his particular needs. We had a marvellous male nurse for him here and even Edward—who would never admit I was right if he could help it—had to say that being here made his life more bearable. It was the war.”
Orlando paused, cup halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”
“The war. That’s why he ended up ill. He volunteered straight away, before that first Christmas.” The Christmas it was all supposed to have been over by. How naive they’d been in 1914. “He was back home the next spring. I suspect it was the effects of gas.”
Jonty held his tongue. As far as he was aware, gas hadn’t been used that early in the conflict, but that was obviously the story Edward had used when he got home. Maybe he had been poisoned out there, gas not being the only thing that had affected people, or maybe that was just an assumption he’d made, to explain the inexplicable—why he’d been afflicted with some terrible wasting disease.
Orlando spoke for them. “Which regiment?”
“The King’s Royal Rifles,” Mrs. Blackett said with evident pride.
“They gave their country good service.” Best to get back to Atherton and the method of his death, although perhaps also best to avoid the actual details. “The coroner had no doubt about the verdict he gave on your brother?”
Mrs. Blackett shook her head. “I’m afraid he didn’t doubt it being two cases of suicide. Even if . . .”
Jonty’s heart leaped. An “even if.” How often had they been sent down a new, important investigational path with a simple “even if” or “however”? “Yes?”
“There was some doubt about whether the poison had been in the whisky or whether that was used to wash the capsules down. Sweeten the pill, as it were.”
Or provide Dutch courage? “It’s in those sorts of doubts that the first light sometimes dawns in a case. Who had them?”
“Two of the scientific experts.” She rolled her eyes at the last word. “They couldn’t agree on whether there was a trace of cyanide in one glass or in both. You’d have thought tests would be beyond doubt, wouldn’t you? Anyway, as the cause of death was indisputable, as was—in the coroner’s mind—the fact of suicide, they didn’t count it as important. Not to them, anyway. The two men had evidently ingested a lethal dose, whether the capsules had been dissolved in whisky or bitten and washed down.”
That dispute might indeed be important, even though Jonty couldn’t see why, as yet. “Which glass did they agree had the poison?”
“Ah, that’s another thing. They weren’t sure which glass was which, because only Dr. Robertson had touched the glasses, and he’d touched both. They agreed on that point, thank goodness, and not just because the weakness in my brother’s fingers and arms meant he couldn’t raise a glass. Fingerprints.”
Jonty smiled. “It’s good to hear they agreed on something, and that people were so up-to-date with investigational methods.”
Orlando was fascinated by fingerprints, although he’d yet to try out his pad, ink, powder, and brush—just about as popular a present from Jonty as the Bret Harte had proved to be—on a serious case. He and young George Broad, who found the idea nearly as enthralling as his almost-uncle did, had cheerfully examined the entire Broad household, above and below stairs, one wet day during the Easter holidays; but apart from discovering a remarkable range of prints on the chocolate tin, they had run no felons to ground.
“It’s a shame there isn’t a modern investigational method that could have recorded what exactly went on in that room.” Mrs. Blackett knitted her brows. “Like the newsreels they show.”
Orlando nodded. “It would make everyone’s lives easier. Is it your conviction that Robertson deliberately killed your brother, against his will?”
Mrs. Blackett took a deep breath. “I simply don’t know, but that does seem the obvious thing, were it not for the character of the man. I met Robertson, and spoke to him at length twice, when I accompanied my brother to his consulting rooms. He was the gentlest of men, with no concern other than his patients’ best interests. I find it hard to believe he could have done such a thing. We talked about Edward’s wish to take his life, back when my brother was at his lowest. I did try to dissuade him from having any part of it.”
“To which his response was . . .?”
“Sympathetic. He said he could only take the ultimate course if it got to the point where there was no alternative in terms of Edward’s quality of life. He’d served out in France too, you know. Been sent back with neurasthenia. He understood.” Mrs. Blackett stopped suddenly, her eyes fleetingly lighting on Jonty’s scarred cheek. “You served as well?”
“I did. Later in the war. Up till then I’d . . .” He remembered he couldn’t mention Room 40. “ We’d been doing some important work for the government. You don’t need to explain the effect the last few years have had on anyone who saw what we saw.”
He stopped again, aware that he’d said too much for his own comfort. Only Orlando had been privy to his bleakest memories from those days. None of his family—not even Lavinia—had been granted a glimpse into that deep well. Maybe young George, when he was a man, would be told. So that his generation would know, and not fall too readily into conflict. For the moment, best to change tack, especially as he couldn’t get his mind around what his hostess was thinking.
“I’m afraid I’m getting myself a tad confused.” Playing the slightly dim card had proved successful in the past. “Your husband gave us to believe that you thought Robertson murdered your brother.”
Mrs. Blackett avoided his gaze. “Sometimes I think that, but I don’t know. It seems so far-fetched. But then Edward taking his own life seems far-fetched. When I last saw him that morning, he gave no indication that he still meant to go through with it. I was certain he’d changed his mind.”
Orlando was almost jumping in his chair with impatience. “Then what else do you think could have happened? Some terrible accident?”
“I don’t know. I believe there may have been somebody else present that day.”
Jonty and Orlando looked at each other, startled, before Orlando continued. “Somebody else present in the room?”
“No. Not as far as I’m aware. Certainly not when Wilshire broke in. It’s just that the housekeeper mentioned something to me at Robertson’s funeral. I went there to pay my respects, although I have to admit I was actually there to see what I could find out.”
Jonty nodded, trying to reorganise his thoughts about the mystery man. “Funerals can often be a useful source of unguarded remarks. What did she say?”
“That there’d been somebody at the house that day, asking for Edward.”
“At Robertson’s house? Why there and not here?” Jonty shared a puzzled glance with Orlando.
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her. I got the impression she was embarrassed at having mentioned the fact. As though the emotion of the occasion had overcome her and loosened her tongue more than she’d intended. She steered clear of me afterwards.”
“Hmm.” Orlando finished writing a sentence, then tapped the pad. “There are things here which would bear investigation, but there remains a stumbling block to the murder theory. The suicide letter your brother left.”
Mrs. Blackett gazed down at her cup, then turned to look out of the window. It was a lovely morning, although Jonty could see nothing there to grab her attention. Surely she must have anticipated the question, so was she buying thinking time or just evading their gaze again?
“I believe,” she said at last, “that letter strengthens my case rather than weakens it. My brother couldn’t write or type. So how could it have been produced? I didn’t write any letters for him and neither did anyone else in this house.”
“Did nobody think to mention that to the coroner? If it hadn’t already occurred to him?” Jonty sighed, exasperated.
“My husband believed he’d had it dictated by some agency or amanuensis in London. He spent every Thursday at his flat, attending to any business he had in hand. It would have been easy enough for him to have used that time to produce a letter. I have to admit,” she added with evident reluctance, “he had signed it himself, or made his official mark.”
“Official mark?”
“Yes. He had devised a sort of hieroglyph or symbol that he’d had officially recognised by a solicitor while he could still write with some clarity, to be his approved signature when he could no longer produce a legible version of that. There were many documents to be dealt with.”
That made sense. “So the coroner accepted the signature as genuine?”
“Yes. My husband was sure there was nothing suspicious in the letter, as was Edward’s solicitor.”
Jonty nodded. It sounded as though the coroner had explored that avenue thoroughly. “That matter of producing a verified signature shows a lot of foresight. Did your brother have many business matters to deal with?”
Mrs. Blackett nodded, speaking with pride in her voice, “We inherited quite an estate from our father, between us, and Edward knew he’d have things to be addressed. Papa taught us to be vigilant against the chance of fraud. There are many people who would jump at the chance of stealing someone’s money, especially when that someone is vulnerable. Edward didn’t want to take that risk as his illness developed, and he maintained that same determination right to the end. That’s another reason I don’t think he would take his life.”
Jonty wasn’t sure that argument held water. Maybe the man was just preserving his estate as he’d been raised to do, as much a matter of habit as conscious decision. Or maybe he was just taking proper steps to secure his sister’s inheritance.
Inheritance.
Orlando’s mind must have been running down the same lines. “I’m sorry to have to pose what might be a delicate question, but you’ll understand why I need to ask it. Where did Edward’s estate go?”
“I understand entirely.” Mrs. Blackett gave a fond smile. “It went to the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children, apart from a token amount to Wilshire with which to toast my brother’s passing to the next world. I didn’t need any money, being well provided for already, and neither Edward nor myself had any offspring to benefit from us.”
“I see.” Orlando’s puzzled expression seemed to give the lie to his words. “Why that place in specifically?”
“Because he loved Peter Pan, of course.”
Jonty nodded. He knew of the bequest Barrie had made to the hospital, ensuring that the profits from the play would benefit many boys and girls, lost or not. He’d also known Barrie himself, in passing, although their paths hadn’t crossed in many a year.
“Such a sad family,” their hostess said, suddenly. “Would you like more coffee?”
“Er . . . yes, please. And could you clarify that remark? I don’t quite follow.” Jonty had heard a few stories about the Barrie marriage, concerning a lack of rousings in the masculine bushes, but wasn’t sure whether he believed them or not. And Mrs. Blackett didn’t seem like the sort of lady to refer to such strictly below-the-waist matters.
“The Llewelyn Davies family,” she replied, handing Jonty his cup then pouring one for Orlando. “Those poor boys.”
“Ah, yes. Indeed.” Five of them, orphaned at a tender age, left in the care of Barrie—who’d made a pretty good fist of things. Or so Jonty’s parents had averred, and he’d always trusted their judgement. Mr. Stewart in particular had known the family, through his many cricketing connections. But then, the Stewarts were renowned for having connections with just about everyone.
“I’m pleased to hear that Edward invested in such a good cause,” Orlando averred.
“Edward knew them, you know.”
“Did he?” Jonty—whose mind had gone off down a track in which memories of Barrie, cricket, two previous cases (could that really have been a dozen years ago?), all tumbled pell-mell—jolted back to the present. “So did my parents, at a remove. It’s a small world.”
“It is indeed. He’d had a sweetheart, you know, back in our younger days, who was a friend of the Llewelyn Davies family. And then one of the brothers, George, was in the King’s Rifles, too.”
Jonty picked his words carefully. “I have a feeling this story might have a sad ending. Where is his sweetheart now?”
“Your feeling is correct. She died young, just as the boys’ mother did. Edward never got over it. It’s the reason he never married.”
“How sad. I did wonder if it was something similar.” Jonty also wondered, fleetingly, if that had been the true reason, or just what he’d told his sister. There was another obvious reason that a man might choose not to marry—or have a wife simply as a mask to wear in society—but he and Orlando didn’t want to consider that possibility unless they had to. There was such a thing as getting too close for comfort.
“My brother was completely taken with the family and always took an interest in their doings.” Mrs. Blackett stopped, then wagged her finger. “Sorry, we’re digressing, aren’t we?”
“It appears so. My mother always said it was one of my faults, not keeping to the point.” Jonty smiled, then nodded towards Orlando, who was perching on the edge of his chair. “My colleague is evidently anxious to get us back on track.”
“If we could.” Orlando turned over a new page in his notebook. “Your husband told Dr. Stewart that Edward had found out something about Robertson. Some secret which might perhaps be used to coerce him.”
“My brother was no blackmailer, thank you very much!”
Jonty almost dropped his notebook at the volume of Mrs. Blackett’s response.
“Nobody is suggesting blackmail,” he said at last, in measured tones. Apart from you. “The doctor might not have had to be threatened to feel under threat, if that makes sense.”
“A secret can be just as dangerous for the one who knows about it as the one who possesses it,” Orlando added.
“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry. Gerald—my husband—believes Edward might have used this knowledge he possessed to coerce Robertson into helping him die, but he didn’t need to. As I told you earlier, the doctor would have acted if he’d believed it to be in Edward’s best interest.” She laid her cup down on the table with a suggestion of finality. “Maybe he thought it was in Edward’s best interest, even if my brother had changed his mind.”
Jonty wasn’t ready for the interview to end. “Have you any idea what Edward knew? Or how he’d come across whatever it was?”
“No. On both counts. I wish I did know the wretched thing, because that might shed some light on matters, but I suspect it’s gone to the grave with him.” She looked out of the window again, then turned to face her guests. “Edward was so pleased with himself when he learned whatever he learned. He was like a dog with two tails. If he hadn’t known, if he hadn’t let Robertson know he knew, he might still be here.”
She buried her face in her handkerchief, and Jonty knew they would get no further on this occasion.