Morning broke, full of wintry foreboding. A new, more cruel wind seemed to come down from the ring of watching hills.
Devereaux awoke first, waited.
Heard her breath. He kept his eyes opened, smelled her hair. When she awoke, finally, and stirred and felt him next to her, she did not speak. He had to say the first thing.
They lay, cupped, and waited.
He would not speak.
He knew there were words in him but he could not say them. He wanted them to be spoken, wanted to give her what she wanted to hear.
“Devereaux,” she said at last. The cloudy light flooded the room and made all the colors only shades of black and white. She did not move but was still in his encircling arms. She looked at his wrists.
“Devereaux,” she said again. “Are we going to die?”
“No, Elizabeth,” he said, as if he were telling a child there is no death and that morning always follows darkness.
“Dev,” she said. “I didn’t know I could be afraid. I wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. And then that man with the gun. I was afraid of you, too. Last night.”
Don’t be afraid. I wouldn’t have killed you. It didn’t happen. He said none of those lies.
“Dev.” Pause. She could not see him, only feel his body next to her. “I didn’t care. The first night. When I met you. I didn’t care about. About this — about going to bed with you. It was just… just the job.”
Don’t speak. Don’t speak.
She seemed to understand. She was quiet. He held her tighter. Then he kissed her. Once. Tenderly. Behind her ear. He kissed her once again, on her neck. Then he was quiet, too, lying still in the bed, watching nothing. Waiting and listening until it would be all right.
You can’t wait for that, he thought; it’s never all right. The cold doesn’t end. The darkness has no morning on the other side.
She felt him pulling back from her, turning in the bed; felt her body falling toward him on the sheet. She closed her eyes; felt him kiss her on the eyelid, then on her breast. Softly and then clumsily, in want. He kissed her belly.
He covered her with his body.
She reached for him, took her hands between his legs, felt him ease into her.
Soft and groping, no longer afraid of the darkness.
He warmed her at last.
His Lordship was not prepared at that moment to speak with the Chief Inspector but asked pardon for his delay. It was a matter of a call to Quebec City and the oil ministers who had excused him from their meeting. Could he, Jeffries, be of service in the meantime?
And so Cashel found himself in the immense library of Clare House, talking with a still-shaken but supremely confident Jeffries. They discussed the murders, and Cashel thought he understood exactly what had happened.
But he could not understand why.
Cashel had been served claret; it was just before noon. Jeffries sipped at tea. Cashel stood at the window and looked down the long lawn from Clare House which ran to the barren edge of the hills descending in gradual slopes to the Galway road five hundred feet below. Beyond lay the bay.
“Fer what purpose?” Cashel asked quietly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh.” He turned. “I was talkin’ to meself. Fer what purpose would Toolin go t’a strange country and wait t’kill his Lairdship?”
“I’m sure I cannot comprehend his motives,” said Jeffries.
“Nor I,” said Cashel.
The phantom of a thought flashed across his mind. “Mr. Jeffries, would ye be kind enough to give me some idea of what public gatherin’s his Lairdship is going to be undertaking in the next few weeks?”
“Why? If I may ask, Chief Inspector?” The tone was precise, a studied London non-accent like that favored by television people.
Cashel smiled. “I don’t know, Mr. Jeffries. I can’t make sense yet out of what has happened, so perhaps I can make sense out of what will come to be.”
Jeffries smiled. “I don’t understand?”
“Neither do I, my lad,” said Cashel. “Perhaps there was a reason for Toolin to go after Lord Slough in Canada, rather than here. Was he trying to prevent something? I don’t know and I’ll tell ya, I’m at sea. I’ve gone round with Toolin’s old woman in Dublin till I’m blue in me face and I haven’t a clue.”
Cashel’s smile and confession seemed to warm the cold demeanor of the private secretary. Getting up, Jeffries went to a Queen Anne table and picked up an appointment book.
“Tomorrow is Saturday and the funeral for poor Deirdre Monahan, of course. With her people down in Innisbally. His Lordship will not attend the wake but will be at the funeral Mass tomorrow morning. And at the grave. Incidentally, the graveyard is along the Galway road, north of the village.”
Cashel nodded and wrote it down.
“As for poor Harmon. Well, he was English and had no family. His Lordship has made arrangements for him—”
Jeffries glanced again at the appointment book.
“Very little Sunday. No public meetings, if that’s what you’re interested in. He’ll be here at Clare House all day. On Monday, he flies to London for a meeting with directors of Great Western Oil. That’s a private conference, at Devon House, Lord Slough’s headquarters there—”
Cashel noted it.
“Tuesday is quite full.” Jeffries glanced at Cashel. “And quite public. A meeting with his editors at the Scottish Daily News in the morning in Edinburgh. And then the Royal Cancer Society benefit—”
“A concert, is it then?” asked Cashel.
Jeffries grinned. “Hardly. A benefit match arranged by Slough Newspapers Limited at Ibrox Park in Glasgow.”
“Match?”
“Between the Celtics and Rangers.”
“Oh, Lord help us,” said Cashel. He knew — everyone in the English-speaking soccer world knew — that a football match between the two Glasgow teams in Glasgow was an occasion for riot, drunkenness, and general anarchy.
Jeffries went on: “Wednesday, December first, is most important — launch of the Brianna at Liverpool with the Taoiseach and British Prime Minister in attendance.”
“The Taoiseach?” Cashel was impressed; it was a rare occasion when the Prime Minister of Eire — the Taoiseach — went to England for any man.
“This is a launch is it?”
“More like an inaugural flight,” smiled Jeffries.
“Ah, an aeroplane—”
“No,” said Jeffries. “The Brianna—named after his Lordship’s daughter, of course — is a hovercraft, the first to go in service on the Irish Sea. Certainly you’ve read about it.”
Cashel shook his head.
“His Lordship’s new ferry service on the Devon Line — hovercraft between Liverpool and Dublin in forty-five minutes. It’s called a flight because the ship literally flies on jets of air above the water. The jets push it out of the water and along the surface, reducing friction and allowing for great speed. They have hovercraft in service on the English Channel.”
“I see.” Cashel nodded. “And when is this inaugural flight then?”
“On December first. It was pushed back.”
“I see.”
Jeffries looked up. He liked the slow, rather stupid detective for some reason.
He smiled. “Would you like to be a passenger? I could arrange it?”
“Ah, no, sir, I wouldn’t. I don’t care fer flyin’ if you must know. Never have. I like me feet on the ground.”