I wished I didn’t feel so certain that she was right. I wanted the murderer of Cicely Ford brought to justice.
Burl Hodge raised his overflowing cup to me from the opposite side of the table.
‘We’ve you to thank, yet again, Chapman, or so I understand.’ His tone was grudging, as was the little ripple of applause that accompanied his words. But at least there seemed to be less resentment towards me than there had been earlier in the week. I had done something useful for my adopted community, and its members were willing to acknowledge the fact, albeit reluctantly. I could bide my time.
I glanced around, chewing contentedly. Elizabeth sat next to me, then Adela, a sleeping Adam cradled in her left arm, and on her right, Nicholas. My daughter sucked her fingers clean of meat juices before, with a sideways glance at me to make sure that I was watching, leaned over and kissed the top of her half-brother’s little head. Nicholas, not to be outdone, got hold of one of Adam’s feet and kissed his small, pink toes. Margaret looked across the table at me and winked.
So, there we sat, the picture of a happy and contented family. Although, if I were a cynic (which, of course, I’m not) I might have recognized the very faintest trace of a doubt in that last felicitous thought of mine.