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My dear Thelonius,

Forgive me for a somewhat abrupt, and perhaps questionably tasteful, request that you receive me this evening, but our friendship was never such that convention ruled, or polite excuses covered either thought or emotion. A matter has arisen concerning a very dear friend of mine, a young woman I regard as family, and I believe you may be able to help with recollections, in the public domain, but not in mine.

Unless I hear that it is inconvenient to you, I shall call upon you in your rooms in Piccadilly at eight this evening.

Yours in friendship,

Vespasia

She sealed it and rang the bell for her footman. When he came she gave him the note with instructions to take it immediately to the chambers of Mr. Justice Thelonius Quade in the Inner Temple, and to await such reply as there might be.

He returned an hour later bearing a note which read:

My dear Vespasia,

What a delight to hear from you again, whatever the reason. I shall be in court all day, but have no engagements of any importance this evening, and shall be happy to see you, especially if you would care to dine, while you tell me of the concern for your friend.

Be assured I shall do all in my power to help, and count it my privilege.

May I look forward to seeing you at eight o’clock?

Always your friend,

Thelonius

She folded it again and placed it in one of the pigeonholes in her bureau. She would not yet keep it with the others of nearly twenty years ago. The space between them had been too great. Memories filled her mind, delicate, without sorrow now. She would accept the invitation to dine. It would be most pleasant to have time to speak of other things as well, to develop the conversation slowly, to enjoy his company, his wit, the complexities of his thoughts, the subtlety of his judgment. And there would be good humor, there had always been that—and honesty.

She dressed with care, not only for herself but also for him. It was a long time since she had worn anything to please anyone else. He had always liked pale colors, subtle tones. She put on ivory silk, smooth over the hip and with a very discreet bustle exquisitely swathed, and lace at the neck, and pearls, lots of pearls. He had always preferred their sheen to the brilliance of diamonds, which he thought hard, and ostentatious.

She alighted from her carriage at five minutes past eight, close enough to the appointed hour to be polite, and yet not so prompt as to be vulgar. The butler who answered the door was very elderly. His white hair shone in the light from the hallway and his shoulders were more than a trifle stooped. He looked at her for a moment before his features lit in a smile. “Good evening, Lady Cumming-Gould,” he said with unconcealed pleasure, memories flooding back. “How very pleasant to see you. Mr. Quade is expecting you, if you will come this way. May I take your cape?”

It was twenty years since Thelonius Quade had been in love with her, and to be honest, she had also loved him far more than she had ever intended when she had begun their romance. He had been a brilliant barrister in his early forties, lean and slight with an ascetic dreamer’s face full of beautiful bones, married to his career and the love of justice.

She had been sixty, still possessed of the great beauty which had made her famous, married to a man of whom she had been fond but never adored. He had been older than she, a chilly man who had little humor, and at that time he was retreating from life into a dour old age, seeking even more physical comfort and less involvement with other people, except a few like-minded friends, and a large number of acquaintances with whom he conducted an enormous correspondence about the dire state of the Empire, the ruin of society and the decline of religion.

Now as she found herself on the brink of seeing Thelonius Quade again, she was ridiculously nervous. It was too absurd! She was over eighty, an old woman; even Thelonius himself must be over sixty now! She had been perfectly composed when she suggested the idea to Charlotte, but as she followed the butler across the familiar hallway her heart was fluttering, and her hands were stiff, and she nearly missed her step between the parquet flooring and the Aubusson carpet of the withdrawing room.

“Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould,” the butler announced, opening the doors for her and stepping back.

Vespasia swallowed, lifted her head even higher, and went in.

Thelonius Quade was standing by the fireplace, facing her. He looked leaner than she had recalled, and perhaps taller. Even his face was gaunt, its sensitive lines thrown into sharper relief. The marks of age had given him a quality it would not be misplaced to call beauty, such was the power of his character that shone through.

He smiled as soon as he saw her, and came across the room slowly, holding out his hands a little, palms upwards.

Without thinking about it, she placed her hands in his, smiling back.

He moved no closer but stood searching her face, and finding in it what he had hoped.

“I suppose you must have changed,” he said quietly. She had forgotten how good his voice was, how very clear. “But I cannot see it—and I do not wish to.”

“I am twenty years older, Thelonius,” she replied with a little shake of her head.

“Ah, but my dear, so am I,” he said gently. “And that cancels it out. Come, let us move a little closer to the fire. The evening is chilly, and it would be hasty to begin dinner the moment you are through the door. We cannot possibly catch up twenty years in one short encounter, so do not let us pretend.” He led her towards the warmth as he spoke. “Tell me instead what it is that concerns you so much. We do not need to play games of trivial conversation and skirt around what we mean. We never did. And unless you are totally different, you will not rest until we have dealt with the matter of importance.”

“Am I so very … direct?” she said with a rueful smile.

“Yes,” he replied without compromise. He searched her face carefully. She had not remembered his eyes were blue, or so perceptive. “You do not look deeply troubled. May I assume it is not a matter of distress?”

She lifted an elegant shoulder and the pearls on her bosom shone in the light.

“At the moment it is only interest, which may develop into concern. I am very fond of the young woman.”

“You said in your note that you regarded her as family.” He was standing next to the fireplace, facing her. She stood also; she had been sitting most of the day, and all the journey here, and she felt comfortable. In spite of her age, she was straight-backed and erect, and nearly as tall as he.

“She is the sister of a niece, by marriage.”

“I detect a hesitation, Vespasia—an evasion?”

“You are too quick,” she said dryly, but there was no irritation in her. On the contrary, it was vaguely comforting that he should still know her so well, and be willing to show it. “Yes, she is of very moderate family, and has chosen to appall them by marrying beneath herself, in fact a very great deal beneath herself—to a policeman.”

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

“Of whom I am also very fond!” she added defensively.

Still he forbore from commenting, still watching her.

“She—she frequently involves herself in his … cases.” Now she was finding it harder to explain so that it did not sound in the worst possible taste. “In a pursuit of truth,” she said warily, searching his face and not knowing what she read in it. “She is an intelligent and individual young woman.”

“And she is presently so … involved?” he enquired, the amusement so nearly in his voice.

“That will depend.”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether there is any way in which she can meet any of the participants in the affair in a manner which might be productive.”

He looked confused.

“Really, Thelonius,” she said quickly. “Detecting is not a matter of going ’round in a bowler hat asking impertinent questions and writing down what everyone says in a notebook! The best detecting is done by observing people when they are unaware that you have any interest in them, or knowledge of the matter deeper than their own—and of course by making the odd remark which will provoke a reaction in the guilty.” She stopped, seeing him regard her with surprise and fast dawning amusement.