A Christmas Escape by Anne Perry Page B

of such danger, and with three tragedies already behind them.
    “Only accounts of Vesuvius,” Quinn replied. “Destroyed everything in sight for miles. Took two whole cities, buried them in ash and fire—”
    “Very helpful,” Charles cut across anything further he might have been going to say. “Vesuvius is nothing like Stromboli. It was dormant for as long as anyone could recall, quietly building up an immense pressure. Stromboli spits and grumbles all the time. It won’t be anything like Vesuvius.” He was angry with Quinn for making the comparison.
    “Really?” Quinn remarked. “You seemed in the devil of a hurry to get us all out of there and begin the route march to the sea. God knows how far it is, or if it is even remotely necessary.”
    “God does know everything,” Candace said, looking across at Quinn critically. “So it’s true He would have to know this.” She turned her face to Isla, then Bretherton. “Has He told anyone?”
    Charles didn’t know whether to laugh or say something stern to her. But he would sound so horribly pompous if he scolded her.
    “I notice you don’t look at me,” he said to her, his eyes light with humor.
    She kept her face serious, with some effort. “I’m sorry, Charles. I rather thought that if He had told you, then you would have told me.”
    This time he could not help the smile. “Probably I would have.” He stood up slowly. His legs ached and his feet were sore. He imagined everyone else felt the same.
    Isla stood up stiffly also, and Quinn got to his feet last. “I suppose we’d better move on,” he said with resignation. He heaved his pack up on his shoulders again.

    A s they began to walk, Isla approached Charles. Candace obligingly took a few steps forward to walk next to Colonel Bretherton, instinctively knowing she wasn’t wanted at the moment. When she was out of earshot, Isla turned to Charles. “Was Walker alone when he died?” she said softly. “Was it quick? Do you think he knew what happened to him?”
    Charles had a sudden hideously vivid memory of Finbar kneeling on the ground beside the body, then bending so low he could see Bailey’s neck, and the jagged stab wound in it. He would have known he had been attacked, perhaps even known that he would die. Had he seen who had done it? Did he know why? Had his last minutes been spent in terror?
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bailey, but I would only be guessing. It seems quite possible he didn’t know much.”
    She glanced at him sharply, and then nodded and moved ahead of him, as if wanting to be alone for a moment.
    Why could he not have simply lied and said it was instantaneous—that he would have known nothing, felt nothing?
    Or would she then know he was lying, and wonder how much he guessed? She could have delivered the blow that killed Bailey, he reminded himself. After years of bullying, if they had been fighting, her husband would have expected her to yield, as she always did. She could have taken him completely by surprise.
    But had she the strength to move him? How far could a sturdy woman, driven to desperation, drag a dead man?
    Or had Bretherton helped her?
    He did not believe Bretherton would have killed Bailey himself, unless it had been an open battle. It would hardly have become a contest. The colonel was four inches taller and the best part of seventy pounds heavier, not to mention trained as a soldier.
    But if he came upon Isla when they were quarreling, and he thought Bailey was harming her…No, that seemed unlikely. Bretherton was a little unimaginative, predictable in both what he did and what he said. But he would not slit a man’s throat. His own pride would not let him do anything in his estimation so cowardly.
    But if Isla had already killed her husband, would Bretherton cover up for her?
    Charles had only to look at him now, standing close to her, carrying her water, prepared to give her his own. That question answered itself. And Bretherton would believe whatever