Brianna seemed a little overwhelmed and determined to be in control. Cashel thought again how delicate — how like a child and a woman — she was. She reminded him of a porcelain piece of sculpture he had once seen; it was so delicate that he could not bear to stare at it for fear his clumsy soul would somehow break it.
Brianna finally led them into the sitting room at the end of the hall. “You’ve got the man, though,” she said as they entered. “The man who murdered Deirdre?”
Devereaux found a chair and sat down. “Yes,” he said.
Brianna stood and waited, obviously hoping for more information. Annoyance clouded the fair, frail line of her features. She realized they must think she was a child. She wondered what to do with her hands.
“I’m afraid my father will be a while,” she said at last and then realized she had already explained that. It flustered her. “Would you care for anything, Mr. Cashel? Claret?”
“No, I’m afraid—”
“Vodka,” said Devereaux.
“I beg your pardon—”
“Vodka with ice,” he said.
She seemed taken aback. In her limited experience, men drank whisky only after sundown. Or so it had seemed.
“No mix?” she tried. “Rather like drinking straight alcohol.”
“Exactly,” he said.
She went to the hall and spoke to a servant. In a moment, a glass was served on a little tray.
Devereaux drank.
“You’re from Ottawa,” she began.
Devereaux grunted; Cashel paced by the large windows which revealed the broad lawn beyond. A clock in the house ticked steadily on into the yawning silence of afternoon.
“That’s Russian vodka, I believe. The taste, they say, is quite distinctive.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said softly. “I’m not a connoisseur.”
She realized that she felt as though her heart would break in the silence of the room, of the house; in the overwhelming silence of the place that had been a place of Deirdre’s laughter. It was like losing two mothers now. And she was not a woman: A woman, she said to herself, would feel differently. She had small breasts and she wore her silky clothes to advantage and she had a knowledge that men looked at her. But she only wanted to cry now and be comforted.
“Who was Mr. Toolin then?” she asked in the quiet of the room. Cashel looked at her from the window but Devereaux spoke.
“A terrorist and a killer.”
“There’s no reason to it,” she said. What was happening to her voice? She was afraid of herself; her body — still awkward, still coltish, but already a woman’s slim body — was betraying her. She brushed her hands at her sides and then folded her arms.
Devereaux put down the glass and got up. He crossed the room to her. He touched her arm.
She had been staring at the floor. Now she looked at him.
There were tears in her eyes.
“It is without any sense,” he said. Not even comforting — as though you told a child that, yes, you must be afraid of the dark because there are things in the darkness which can harm you.
“Mr. Devereaux,” she began.
But he held her arm and looked at her. She had to return his gaze. Her eyes were wet and his were clear and cold and sad.
“Deirdre Monahan was an accident,” he said.
Cashel made a noise as though to protest — don’t tell her such hard things.
“You know that,” Devereaux continued. “I’m sorry.” He held her arm. His hand, she realized, was very large. It encircled her arm. She stood with her arms folded across her breasts and she gazed steadily at him.
“It’s not over. That’s why we have to talk to your father.”
“Oh my God,” she began.
“Devereaux,” said Cashel warningly.
“Miss Devon,” Devereaux said. “I won’t fool you or tell you a lie.”
“No,” she repeated.
“Don’t be afraid yet, though,” he said. “Trust that, too.”
Lord Slough appeared at the door in that moment and glanced curiously at the man who held his daughter’s arm.
“Good afternoon,” he said quietly. He looked at both men and stood in the middle of the floor.
“I trust,” said Brianna Devon. And Devereaux let go of her arm and turned to the English peer. Cashel announced, “This is Mr. Devereaux from the Canadian security branch.”
“I see,” said the lord. He looked curiously at his daughter for a moment and then at Devereaux and then he nodded slightly. “Have you found the plot behind Toolin’s attempt on my life?”
“No,” said Devereaux.
“We’ve come to talk to you,” said Cashel. “About—”
“Lord Slough,” Devereaux interrupted. His voice was low and cold and without comfort.
The English peer stood still and waited. Brianna suddenly clasped her hands around her body, as though she were chilled.
“I am with Canadian Intelligence,” Devereaux said. “Two days before the attempt on your life, we were warned by an agent in Ulster that there was a plot on your life—”
Cashel stared. Devereaux had said none of these things to him. He detected glimmers of truth in the fabric of the lies about Canadian Intelligence and agents in Ulster. Two days.
“Our man in Ulster was murdered. Later, there was the attempt to kill you. At first it seemed that was the plot uncovered by our agent—”
Lord Slough tried to smile. “But you didn’t warn me.”
“No,” Devereaux said. He paused. All lies were plausible; only the truth could be fantastic. “You were in Canada. We put men to watch you but we did not think the plot against your life was to be carried out in Quebec City.”
“But you were wrong, Mr. Devereaux,” Lord Slough said mildly.
“No,” said Devereaux at last. He watched the thin, pale English face but it did not reveal anything. “We were not wrong. We have certain evidence now of a plot. In progress. To kill you.”
Brianna made a little cry.
“By whom, Mr. Devereaux?”
“The IRA. We have certain names but we still don’t know where or when or how they will try to kill you. But from this moment, you are forewarned.”
Lord Slough glanced at Brianna, who appeared to be in danger of saying something. The look silenced her.
“Brianna. Perhaps it would be better if you left the room.”
“Father.” She rose reluctantly; it was no good to say that she shared this horror with him, had shared it from the moment she had been visited by the headmistress in her room, from the moment she had been told there had been an “accident” in Canada and that her father had been slightly hurt and that her father’s companion had been killed. He thought she was a child and did not share his nightmares.
She left the room but not before glancing again at Devereaux who still stood by the chair.
“Mr. Devereaux,” Lord Slough continued. “Is there any reason not to believe that Mr. Toolin was a member of the IRA as well?”
Devereaux considered it; he had thought about that before. He knew that the IRA, far from being a strongly disciplined centrist terror group, was in fact an umbrella covering several terrorist cells.
“No. It is possible that Toolin was part of the IRA. It is possible that he was the first part of the plot on your life. That’s logical. If he failed to kill you in Canada, then the second part of the plan against you would be set in motion. It is also possible that Toolin was with another faction of the IRA, unrelated to the present plan against your life.”
Cashel grunted. He believed that Toolin had had contacts with the IRA men in Dublin.
“Do any of these… well… logical possibilities bear any resemblance to actuality?” Lord Slough asked dryly.