Strangers at Dawn by Elizabeth Thornton Page B

entered the library, Sir Ivor rose from his desk and offered Max his hand, then waved him to an oversized wing armchair that flanked a massive stone fireplace that could have heated a castle. Sir Ivor was dressed formally in blue cutaway coat and breeches. His silver hair was immaculate. Everything about Sir Ivor was immaculate. It was the first time Max had ever thought of William Neville with a twinge of sympathy.
    The reporters at Sara’s trial had dubbed this man “Sir Prig,” and it was an apt description. Tradition and bloodlines were the yardsticks by which Sir Ivor measured the world. He was a proud man. It must have been hard for William Neville to meet his father’s standards. Maybe that’s why he had married Anne Carstairs-to spite his father.
    “This is a pleasure,” Sir Ivor said, “and a surprise. I understood from your father that you were spending the summer in Exeter, setting up a newspaper or something.”
    “Well I was, but the negotiations fell through.”
    “Ah, so you’re taking a well-earned rest from your labors, are you?”
    “Not exactly. Nothing for me,” Max added when Sir Ivor held up a decanter of brandy and jiggled it invitingly. “I like to keep a clear head when I’m working. But I wouldn’t say no to coffee.”
    Sir Ivor replaced the decanter, snapped his fingers and addressed the footman who stood just inside the door. “See to it, man.” As soon as he and Max were alone, he took thechair behind the desk. “All goes well at Castle Lyndhurst, I hope?”
    Sir Ivor always spoke as though he and Max’s family were intimate friends, and that irritated Max. Keeping his expression bland, he said, “My parents aren’t there. They always spend the summer in Derbyshire.”
    Sir Ivor snapped his fingers. “Of course. They are great hill walkers, are they not?”
    Again, Max was annoyed, because he detected a thread of amusement in Sir Ivor’s voice, as though hill walking were beneath his dignity. “They like to keep fit,” he said, “and keep up with our Derbyshire relations.”
    Sir Ivor linked his long, thin fingers and rested them on the flat of his desk. “But you did not come into Hampshire just to pass the time of day with me.”
    “No,” said Max. “I came to ask you about your son.”
    “Has someone claimed the reward?” Sir Ivor asked quickly.
    “No.”
    “What then?”
    There was no way of putting this gently. Sara had given him some clues the night he’d climbed in her window, and he had to follow them up. “What can you tell me,” he said, “about a young woman, a local girl, who had a child to your son?”
    Max had expected shock or anger, but Sir Ivor looked as though he’d turned to stone. All the color washed from his face, and he began to stutter. In the next instant, however, the color surged back in a fiery red, and he said furiously, “What has this to do with William’s death?”
    “You don’t deny it?”
    “William did not confide in me.”
    Sir Ivor rose abruptly, went to the sideboard and poured himself a drink. He bolted the first shot, then poured himself another. When he returned to his chair, he had himself well in hand.
    He smiled faintly. “Forgive me. No one likes to hear ill of his son. If William had a child to some local girl, I know nothing about it. I trust you will be discreet. It would break his mother’s heart if it got back to her. Who is the girl?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But you’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Personally, I don’t think it’s relevant. I’m not excusing my son’s behavior if what you say is true, but many young men sow their wild oats. Regrettable, but not unnatural.”
    Max said, “I mention the girl only because it’s possible that her father or brother may have killed William in revenge.”
    Sir Ivor shook his head. “You’re on the wrong track. Sara Carstairs murdered my son.” He sat back in his chair and his shrewd eyes narrowed on Max. “Who told you about this