The Shrouded Walls by Susan Howatch Page A

wispy and awry. I could not help wondering if she had been telling me the truth about an unofficial engagement to Rodric.
    “Oh!” she exclaimed, much taken-aback, and stared at me in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”
    She made it sound as if I were trespassing.
    “What are you doing here?” I retorted lightly. “It isn’t your room, is it?”
    There was a pause. Then:
    “It was Rodric’s room,” she said at last. “I come here sometimes.”
    I stared. And then suddenly I was looking at the room around me, the silent four-poster, the mute walls, the shelf of books which I had not even troubled to examine. I stood up, conscious of feeling uneasy sitting in the chair which he must often have used, my hands on the desk at which he must so often have written.
    “I didn’t know,” I said, “that I was in Rodric’s room.”
    She too seemed awkward and ill-at-ease. She had come to the room to sit for a while and remember him, and instead of meeting her memories she had discovered a stranger trespassing in a place she loved. I felt sorry for her.
    “I must go,” I said abruptly. “I was only exploring the house. I don’t know why I stopped here.”
    She moved to let me pass, her cheeks flushed with her own embarrassment, her eyes averted from mine, and without reason I stopped, my hand on the door-knob.
    “May I ask you something very personal?” I heard myself say suddenly.
    She looked up startled. “What’s that?”
    “You were fond of Rodric. Do you honestly believe he killed his father?”
    Her eyes widened. She was evidently stunned and appalled at my frankness and for a long moment she was incapable of speech.
    “Come,” I said, “tell me, for I’m curious to know. I find it hard to believe from what I’ve heard of him that Rodric could commit such a coldblooded murder. Do you think he killed your guardian?”
    She licked her pale lips, her eyes still wide and frightened. Then: “No,” she whispered. “No, I never believed it. Never.”
    She was infatuated with him, I told myself. She idolized him. This was not an unexpected answer.
    “Then who killed your guardian?” I said.
    She looked at me as if I were some hideous monster. “I dare not say.”
    “Ah, come, Mary! Tell me!”
    She shook her head.
    “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
    “No,” she said, “no, I can’t tell you. I have no proof, no way of knowing for certain. All I know is that Rodric never killed him. I never believed he did.”
    “Have you proof that Rodric didn’t kill him?”
    She shook her head.
    “Well, then—” I said exasperated, and then controlled myself. I turned aside. She knew nothing and was of no use to me. “I must go,” I said. “Pray excuse me.”
    I opened the door.
    “Alice and I were in the saloon,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling from her lips. “Rodric and Godfather were quarreling so loudly that Alice said we should withdraw upstairs.”
    “Yes, she told me.” I opened the door a little wider.
    “But she listened eagerly enough,” said the girl, and the spite in her voice made me halt and look back at her. “Until Vere’s name was mentioned. Then she suggested we should withdraw.”
    “What did Mr. Brandson say about Vere?”
    “I suppose he was comparing Vere to Rodric. He said that although Vere had married beneath him and was a disappointment in many ways, Vere at least wasn’t a constant source of embarrassment. Alice stood up as soon as she heard the phrase about her marriage—she was very angry,” Mary added as an afterthought. “Not that she showed her anger greatly, but I knew how angry she was. She went very pale and her eyes glittered.”
    “And what did Rodric say to his father in reply?”
    “There was a murmur which I couldn’t hear well enough. Alice was talking of withdrawing from the room. Then I heard Godfather shout: ‘I’ll not tolerate that indeed! I’ll disinherit any son of mine who works with that Frenchman Delancey! Why,