is that, Scotch?"
"Apple juice. But never fear, I'm sure that we can find you something stronger."
Elen recovered herself. "I have sherry," she offered, "and Scotch. Gareth, could you ... ?"
"Of course." Taking charge, he led us through into the dining-room while Elen retreated again down the corridor, presumably to check on the food. I was glad of the chance to move, to slip free of James's brotherly hold. He was just being friendly, I knew, but Bridget didn't like to share, and I couldn't afford to offend either of them. I deliberately hung back to let them both go in ahead of me, then followed after Christopher.
This dining-room appeared, if possible, even larger than the one next door, with an Art Deco fireplace and a soaring seating alcove filled with windows at the front. At the opposite end of the room; where a second door stood open to a dimly lit passage—the kitchen passage, I deduced—the wall was all but hidden by a huge glass-fronted china cabinet.
"Wow," said Bridget, looking at that cabinet, "this I like."
"It's not for sale," said Gareth, shortly. Then, as an afterthought, he showed us the bottles and glasses laid out on the sideboard and said, "I'll let you help yourselves to drinks."
I chose the sherry, and retreated to the far side of the room where I absorbed myself in studying a wall display of photographs. A wedding portrait had been given pride of place, and seeing Elen, proud and laughing, circled by her husband's arms, I felt a prick of sympathy. He looked so young, I thought. So young and full of life, his broad smile brighter than the summer sunlight gleaming on his golden hair.
"You've found the shrine, I see," said James, moving up behind me. I thought it a surprisingly callous comment for a man who wrote with such sensitivity about other people's lives, but then perhaps James hadn't lost a loved one, yet. Still, he was right—this was a shrine. It only wanted candles and some incense. Every photo showed the same young man—sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always smiling. And, with the one exception of the wedding portrait, always the same age, as though the record of his life had been confined to one brief summer.
"I'm surprised she kept this one." James pointed to a picture at one edge of the arrangement, an inexpert shot of Tony Vaughan in angler's gear, his face all but obscured by the hood of his bright orange raincoat. "He looked like that the day he died. I shouldn't think she'd want to be reminded."
"Were you here the day he died?" I asked him, glad of the excuse to look away from all those photographs.
"I was. I'd only just begun to get the germ of the idea for the book, so I came down to poke about, to do some research. Not the best of timing, really. I arrived the Sunday morning, and that night they brought the body in. Elen," he informed me, "went quite mad. There was some talk, you know, of putting her in hospital."
"In hospital? Was she as bad as that?"
"My dear girl, she was barking. Seeing demons in her bedroom. The doctors were worried she'd do herself harm."
I frowned. "And now?"
"Supposedly, she's better now." He shrugged. "I'm no psychiatrist, I wouldn't know. But there are some who think young Stevie would be better off in care."
I thought about this later, watching Elen slice the bread. In her small hand the long knife somehow looked more dangerous, as a Doberman might look on the end of a lead being held by a child—one didn't get the sense that she was fully in control.
"So," said James, "I take it all was quiet last night? No more sounds from Stevie's room?"
Gareth answered for her and his voice, I thought, held a warning for James. "No."
Elen, oblivious to the interplay between the men, said, "Gareth put a new lock on the window for me, too, so Stevie will be safe now."
Safe from what, I didn't know, and didn't want to ask. The less we talked of babies, the more comfortable I'd be. Head down, I concentrated on my food—an easy thing to do,
"Apple juice. But never fear, I'm sure that we can find you something stronger."
Elen recovered herself. "I have sherry," she offered, "and Scotch. Gareth, could you ... ?"
"Of course." Taking charge, he led us through into the dining-room while Elen retreated again down the corridor, presumably to check on the food. I was glad of the chance to move, to slip free of James's brotherly hold. He was just being friendly, I knew, but Bridget didn't like to share, and I couldn't afford to offend either of them. I deliberately hung back to let them both go in ahead of me, then followed after Christopher.
This dining-room appeared, if possible, even larger than the one next door, with an Art Deco fireplace and a soaring seating alcove filled with windows at the front. At the opposite end of the room; where a second door stood open to a dimly lit passage—the kitchen passage, I deduced—the wall was all but hidden by a huge glass-fronted china cabinet.
"Wow," said Bridget, looking at that cabinet, "this I like."
"It's not for sale," said Gareth, shortly. Then, as an afterthought, he showed us the bottles and glasses laid out on the sideboard and said, "I'll let you help yourselves to drinks."
I chose the sherry, and retreated to the far side of the room where I absorbed myself in studying a wall display of photographs. A wedding portrait had been given pride of place, and seeing Elen, proud and laughing, circled by her husband's arms, I felt a prick of sympathy. He looked so young, I thought. So young and full of life, his broad smile brighter than the summer sunlight gleaming on his golden hair.
"You've found the shrine, I see," said James, moving up behind me. I thought it a surprisingly callous comment for a man who wrote with such sensitivity about other people's lives, but then perhaps James hadn't lost a loved one, yet. Still, he was right—this was a shrine. It only wanted candles and some incense. Every photo showed the same young man—sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always smiling. And, with the one exception of the wedding portrait, always the same age, as though the record of his life had been confined to one brief summer.
"I'm surprised she kept this one." James pointed to a picture at one edge of the arrangement, an inexpert shot of Tony Vaughan in angler's gear, his face all but obscured by the hood of his bright orange raincoat. "He looked like that the day he died. I shouldn't think she'd want to be reminded."
"Were you here the day he died?" I asked him, glad of the excuse to look away from all those photographs.
"I was. I'd only just begun to get the germ of the idea for the book, so I came down to poke about, to do some research. Not the best of timing, really. I arrived the Sunday morning, and that night they brought the body in. Elen," he informed me, "went quite mad. There was some talk, you know, of putting her in hospital."
"In hospital? Was she as bad as that?"
"My dear girl, she was barking. Seeing demons in her bedroom. The doctors were worried she'd do herself harm."
I frowned. "And now?"
"Supposedly, she's better now." He shrugged. "I'm no psychiatrist, I wouldn't know. But there are some who think young Stevie would be better off in care."
I thought about this later, watching Elen slice the bread. In her small hand the long knife somehow looked more dangerous, as a Doberman might look on the end of a lead being held by a child—one didn't get the sense that she was fully in control.
"So," said James, "I take it all was quiet last night? No more sounds from Stevie's room?"
Gareth answered for her and his voice, I thought, held a warning for James. "No."
Elen, oblivious to the interplay between the men, said, "Gareth put a new lock on the window for me, too, so Stevie will be safe now."
Safe from what, I didn't know, and didn't want to ask. The less we talked of babies, the more comfortable I'd be. Head down, I concentrated on my food—an easy thing to do,
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