a family friend as well as a lawyer. It's natural for both of us to want him here. But I'm glad you're seeing her before he arrives. Tell her to answer Dalgliesh's questions but not to volunteer information, any informa-tion. I've no reason to suppose the police will take an unnecessarily dramatic view of what, after all, was common adultery. But it isn't something they'll expect her to confide even if they know about it. Too much candour
looks as suspicious as too little.'
He asked:
'Were you with her when the police broke the news?' 'The police didn't break the news. I did. It seemed to me advisable in all the circumstances. A competent woman officer told me first, then I went down alone to see Barbara. She behaved very prettily. Barbara has always known what emotion it is appropriate for her to feel. And she's a good actress. She should be. She's had plenty of practice. Oh, and another thing. Tell her to say nothing about the child. That's important.'
'If it's what you want, what you think is wise. But it could be helpful to mention the pregnancy. They'd be particularly gentle with her.'
'They'll be gentle. They won't be sending a fool.' They were speaking like confederates, precariously allied
69
in a conspiracy which neither would acknowledge. She felt a cold disgust as physical as nausea and with it there swept over her a weakness which shrivelled her in her chair. Immediately, she was aware of him at her side, of his fingers, gentle, firm, pressing her wrist. She knew that she should have resented his touch, but now it comforted her. She lay back, her eyes closed, and her pulse strengthened under his fingers. He said:
'Lady Ursula, you really should see your doctor. Malcolm Hancock, isn't it? Let me ring him.' She shook her head.
'I'm all right. I can't cope with another person yet. Until the police arrive I need to be alone.' It was a con-fession of weakness which she hadn't expected to make, not to him and not at such a moment. He walked to the door. When his hand was on the knob she said:
'There's one more thing. What do you know about Theresa Nolan?'
'No more than you, I imagine, probably less. She only worked at Pembroke Lodge for four weeks and I hardly set eyes on her. She nursed you, lived in this house, for over six. And when she came to me she was already preg-nant.'
'And Diana Travers?'
'Nothing, except that she was unwise enough to overeat, drink too much and then dive into the Thames. As you must know, Barbara and I had left the Black Swan before she drowned.' He was silent for a moment and then said, gravely:
'I know what you're thinking about, that ludicrous article in the Paternoster Review. Lady Ursula, may I give you some advice? Paul's murder, if it is murder, is per-fectly simple. He let someone into that church, a thief, another derelict, a psychopath, and that person killed him. Don't complicate his death which, God knows, is horrible enough, with old, irrelevant tragedies. The police will have enough to get their teeth into without that.'
'Are they both irrelevant?'
7O
He didn't answer. Instead he said:
'Has Sarah been told?'
'Not yet. I tried to telephone her this morning at the flat but there was no reply. She was probably out getting a paper. I'll try again as soon as you leave.'
'Would you like me to go round? She is Paul's daughter, after all. This will be a terrible shock to her. She oughtn't
to learn it from the police or the television news.'
'She won't. If necessary, I'll go round myself.'
'But who will drive you? Isn't Wednesday Halliwell's day off?'
'There are taxis.'
She resented the way in which he seemed to be taking over, insinuating himself into the family as cunningly as he once had in Oxford. And then, again, she reproached herself for unfairness. He had never lacked his measure of kindness. He said:
'She ought to have time for preparation before the police burst in on her.'
Time for what? she wondered. To make a decent pre-tence that she cared? She
looks as suspicious as too little.'
He asked:
'Were you with her when the police broke the news?' 'The police didn't break the news. I did. It seemed to me advisable in all the circumstances. A competent woman officer told me first, then I went down alone to see Barbara. She behaved very prettily. Barbara has always known what emotion it is appropriate for her to feel. And she's a good actress. She should be. She's had plenty of practice. Oh, and another thing. Tell her to say nothing about the child. That's important.'
'If it's what you want, what you think is wise. But it could be helpful to mention the pregnancy. They'd be particularly gentle with her.'
'They'll be gentle. They won't be sending a fool.' They were speaking like confederates, precariously allied
69
in a conspiracy which neither would acknowledge. She felt a cold disgust as physical as nausea and with it there swept over her a weakness which shrivelled her in her chair. Immediately, she was aware of him at her side, of his fingers, gentle, firm, pressing her wrist. She knew that she should have resented his touch, but now it comforted her. She lay back, her eyes closed, and her pulse strengthened under his fingers. He said:
'Lady Ursula, you really should see your doctor. Malcolm Hancock, isn't it? Let me ring him.' She shook her head.
'I'm all right. I can't cope with another person yet. Until the police arrive I need to be alone.' It was a con-fession of weakness which she hadn't expected to make, not to him and not at such a moment. He walked to the door. When his hand was on the knob she said:
'There's one more thing. What do you know about Theresa Nolan?'
'No more than you, I imagine, probably less. She only worked at Pembroke Lodge for four weeks and I hardly set eyes on her. She nursed you, lived in this house, for over six. And when she came to me she was already preg-nant.'
'And Diana Travers?'
'Nothing, except that she was unwise enough to overeat, drink too much and then dive into the Thames. As you must know, Barbara and I had left the Black Swan before she drowned.' He was silent for a moment and then said, gravely:
'I know what you're thinking about, that ludicrous article in the Paternoster Review. Lady Ursula, may I give you some advice? Paul's murder, if it is murder, is per-fectly simple. He let someone into that church, a thief, another derelict, a psychopath, and that person killed him. Don't complicate his death which, God knows, is horrible enough, with old, irrelevant tragedies. The police will have enough to get their teeth into without that.'
'Are they both irrelevant?'
7O
He didn't answer. Instead he said:
'Has Sarah been told?'
'Not yet. I tried to telephone her this morning at the flat but there was no reply. She was probably out getting a paper. I'll try again as soon as you leave.'
'Would you like me to go round? She is Paul's daughter, after all. This will be a terrible shock to her. She oughtn't
to learn it from the police or the television news.'
'She won't. If necessary, I'll go round myself.'
'But who will drive you? Isn't Wednesday Halliwell's day off?'
'There are taxis.'
She resented the way in which he seemed to be taking over, insinuating himself into the family as cunningly as he once had in Oxford. And then, again, she reproached herself for unfairness. He had never lacked his measure of kindness. He said:
'She ought to have time for preparation before the police burst in on her.'
Time for what? she wondered. To make a decent pre-tence that she cared? She
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