“I’m sure there are any number of possible explanations,” Ehrengraf said, his fingers worrying the tips of his trimmed mustache. “Any number of explanations. Do you know the epitaph Andrew Marvell wrote for a lady?
“To say — she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,
She summed her life every day;
Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,
Gentle as evening, cool as night:
—‘Tis true; but all too weakly said;
‘Twas more significant, she’s dead.
“She’s dead, Mr. Cutliffe, and we may leave her to heaven, as another poet has said. My client was innocent. That’s the only truly relevant point. My client was innocent.”
“As you somehow knew all along.”
“As I knew all along, yes. Yes, indeed, as I knew all along.” Ehrengraf’s fingers drummed the tabletop. “Perhaps you could get our waiter’s eye,” he suggested. “I think I might enjoy another glass of Calvados.”