lives, there was no more than a breeze, but in the new atmosphere of secrecy engendered by the murder, she felt as if the fingers and toes of her existence were growing numb, losing sensitivity in an early frost.
Bailey, when she first encountered him, had been a silent man, bursting the banks of his own reserve so slowly at first that she had not realized how much he had been giving and at what cost. Bailey's heart had opened to enfold her own in a gentle embrace, always ready to release her should she ever protest or demand freedom. A childhood of genteel poverty, a policeman's life in various sewers the full details of which she learned piecemeal and never completely, things of which he was ashamed, fewer where he was proud, never a member of the club that would let him join, never wanting to be.
A marriage long past to a woman gone mad, a woman he had treasured and who was still an unknown quantity in Helen's mind. No jealousy, simply ignorance. The trouble was, he still tried to protect his Helen from hurtful information the way he might have shielded that vulnerable spouse; he would always try to do so, and this case, which touched their personal lives so closely, forced a return in him to the old hesitation that had been his hallmark before love for Helen had overtaken him so completely.
He had set himself against any kind of silence toward her, but could not persuade his mind to the same course if the truth might wound or even offend her. In his dealings with Sumner, he had acted with the efficiency of the professional: he had charged the man with murder and known that Helen could not approve, could never have done the same. The charge had been like painting by numbers on a picture that was clearly incomplete, since all such pictures were incomplete without fingerprints or signed confessions.
The police had more than enough numbers; therefore there was a charge. Helen would have called this process an upside-down drawing, told him not to stop investigating. And so the body in the woods created not a rift but a hiatus, a time when they took stock of each other's reactions, withdrew to save admissions or accusations, felt more than a little lonely, Helen more than a little disappointed in him. No hostilities; each would have gone to the end of the world to avoid a row, but in the fruitful ease of normal communication there was a blockage, a reversion to the native state of two pathologically lonely and self-sufficient souls who had once found themselves so utterly relieved by the discovery of each other.
At home, that home she could not think of as home, she sat and watched. How gently the police had treated Sumner she could only guess. Gentleness of every kind was inherent in Bailey, perceptible even in the lines of that hatched face of his, so severe in repose, so transformed by laughter. Even his harshest and most obstinate interrogations never carried the slightest implication of violence, but he often used the persuasive force of fear. She imagined him with his pale prisoner, well aware of how intimidating Bailey could be with a minimum of words and gestures. Strong medicine for Antony Sumner, prejudiced, illogical, spoiled, selfish teacher and lover, surely unable to withstand such provocative skills. Few others did, usually those cunning enough not to open their mouths at all in a way she would never have managed. But there it was:
Antony had resisted, been charged, and her guinea pig-faced employer found the case straightforward despite gaps such as the absence of a murder weapon. Helen did not: she felt that the evidence was brutally incomplete, the conclusions drawn so far woefully inadequate; she was determined to watch and see if her judgement proved correct, but she was a kind of prisoner, unable to discuss the case either at home or at work, since after a few early forays, Bailey discouraged her interest and Redwood forbade it.
Looking at Geoffrey now as he sat in an armchair after supper, reading a
Bailey, when she first encountered him, had been a silent man, bursting the banks of his own reserve so slowly at first that she had not realized how much he had been giving and at what cost. Bailey's heart had opened to enfold her own in a gentle embrace, always ready to release her should she ever protest or demand freedom. A childhood of genteel poverty, a policeman's life in various sewers the full details of which she learned piecemeal and never completely, things of which he was ashamed, fewer where he was proud, never a member of the club that would let him join, never wanting to be.
A marriage long past to a woman gone mad, a woman he had treasured and who was still an unknown quantity in Helen's mind. No jealousy, simply ignorance. The trouble was, he still tried to protect his Helen from hurtful information the way he might have shielded that vulnerable spouse; he would always try to do so, and this case, which touched their personal lives so closely, forced a return in him to the old hesitation that had been his hallmark before love for Helen had overtaken him so completely.
He had set himself against any kind of silence toward her, but could not persuade his mind to the same course if the truth might wound or even offend her. In his dealings with Sumner, he had acted with the efficiency of the professional: he had charged the man with murder and known that Helen could not approve, could never have done the same. The charge had been like painting by numbers on a picture that was clearly incomplete, since all such pictures were incomplete without fingerprints or signed confessions.
The police had more than enough numbers; therefore there was a charge. Helen would have called this process an upside-down drawing, told him not to stop investigating. And so the body in the woods created not a rift but a hiatus, a time when they took stock of each other's reactions, withdrew to save admissions or accusations, felt more than a little lonely, Helen more than a little disappointed in him. No hostilities; each would have gone to the end of the world to avoid a row, but in the fruitful ease of normal communication there was a blockage, a reversion to the native state of two pathologically lonely and self-sufficient souls who had once found themselves so utterly relieved by the discovery of each other.
At home, that home she could not think of as home, she sat and watched. How gently the police had treated Sumner she could only guess. Gentleness of every kind was inherent in Bailey, perceptible even in the lines of that hatched face of his, so severe in repose, so transformed by laughter. Even his harshest and most obstinate interrogations never carried the slightest implication of violence, but he often used the persuasive force of fear. She imagined him with his pale prisoner, well aware of how intimidating Bailey could be with a minimum of words and gestures. Strong medicine for Antony Sumner, prejudiced, illogical, spoiled, selfish teacher and lover, surely unable to withstand such provocative skills. Few others did, usually those cunning enough not to open their mouths at all in a way she would never have managed. But there it was:
Antony had resisted, been charged, and her guinea pig-faced employer found the case straightforward despite gaps such as the absence of a murder weapon. Helen did not: she felt that the evidence was brutally incomplete, the conclusions drawn so far woefully inadequate; she was determined to watch and see if her judgement proved correct, but she was a kind of prisoner, unable to discuss the case either at home or at work, since after a few early forays, Bailey discouraged her interest and Redwood forbade it.
Looking at Geoffrey now as he sat in an armchair after supper, reading a
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