"If you want to wait in the morning room, there may be a newspaper there, or something," Duke said abruptly. "It's that way." He indicated the door to his left, Evan's right. "I expect when Papa comes home he'll see you. Not that I imagine he can tell you anything either, but he did teach Rhys at school.”

"Do you imagine Rhys might have confided in him?”

Duke gave him a look of such incredible contempt no answer was necessary.

Evan accepted the invitation and went to the cold and very uncomfortable morning room. The fire had long since gone out and he was too chilly to sit. He walked back and forth, half looking at the books on the shelf, noticing a number of classical titles, Tacitus, Sallust, Juvenal, Caesar, Cicero and Pliny in the original Latin, translations of Terence and Plautus, the poems of Catullus, and on the shelf above, the travels of Herodotus, and Thucydides' history of the Peloponnesian War. They were hardly the reading a waiting guest would choose. He wondered what manner of person usually sat here.

What he really wanted was to ask Kynaston about Sylvestra Duff. He wanted to know if she had a lover, if she was the sort of woman to seize her own desires even at the expense of someone else's life. Had she the strength of will, the courage, the blind, passionate selfishness? But how did you say that to anyone? How did you elicit it from them without their wish?

Not by pacing the floor alone in a cold room, thinking about it. He wished he had Monk's skill. He might have known.

He went to the fireplace and pulled the bell rope. When the maid answered he asked if he could see Mrs. Kynaston. The maid promised to enquire.

He had no picture in his mind, but still Fidelis Kynaston surprised him. He would have said at a glance that she was plain. She was certainly over forty, nearer to forty-five, and yet he found himself drawn to her immediately. There was a composure in her, an inner certainty which was integrity.

"Good evening, Mr. Evan." She came in and closed the door. She had fair hair which was fading a little at the temples, and she wore a dark grey dress of simple cut, without ornament except for a very beautiful cameo brooch, heightened by its solitary presence. The physical resemblance to her son was plain, and yet her personality was so utterly different she seemed nothing like him at all. There was no antagonism in her eyes, no contempt, only amusement and patience.

"Good evening, Mrs. Kynaston," he said quickly. "I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your help, if you are able to give it, in endeavouring to learn what happened to Rhys Duff and his father. I cannot question him. As you may know, he cannot speak, and is too ill to be distressed by having the subject even mentioned to him. I dislike raising it with Mrs. Duff more than I am obliged to, and I think she is too deeply shocked at present to recall a great deal.”

"I am not sure what I know, Mr. Evan," she answered with a frown. "The imagination answers why Rhys may have gone to such an area. Young men do. They frequently have more curiosity and appetite than either sense or good taste.”

He was surprised at her candour, and it must have shown in his expression.

She smiled, a lop-sided gesture because of the extra ordinariness of her face.

"I have sons, and I had brothers, Mr. Evan. Also my husband is the principal of a school for boys. I should indeed have my eyes closed were I to be unaware of such things.”

"Did you not find it difficult to believe that Rhys would go there?”

"No. He was an average young man, with all the usual desires to flout convention as he thought his parents considered it, and yet to do exactly what all young men have always done.”

"His father before him?" he asked.

Her eyebrows rose. "Probably. If you are asking me if I know, then the answer is that I do not. There are many things a wise woman chooses not to know, unless the knowledge is forced upon her, and most men do not force it.”

He hesitated. Was she referring to the use of prostitutes, or something else as well? There was a shadow in her eyes, a darkness in her voice. She had looked at the world clearly and seen much unpleasantness. He was quite sure she had known pain, and accepted it as inevitable, her own no less than that of others. Could it be to do with her son Duke? Might he have a great deal to do with the younger, more impressionable Rhys's behaviour? He was the kind of youth others wanted to impress, and to emulate.

"But nevertheless, you guess?" he said quietly.

"That is not the same, Mr. Evan. What you only guess you can always deny to yourself. The element of uncertainty is enough. But before you ask; no, I do not know what happened to Rhys, or to his father. I can only assume Rhys fell in with bad company, and poor Leighton was so concerned for him that in this instance he followed him, perhaps in an attempt to persuade Rhys to leave, and in the ensuing fight Leighton was killed and Rhys injured. It is tragic. With a little more consideration, less pride and stubbornness, it need not have happened.”

"Is this guess based on your knowledge of the character of Mr. Duff?”

She was still standing, perhaps also too cold to sit.

"Yes.”

"You knew him quite well?”

"Yes, I did. I have known Mrs. Duff for years. Mr. Duff and my husband were close friends. My husband is profoundly grieved at his death. It has made him quite unwell. He took a severe chill, and I am sure the distress has hindered his recovery.”

"I'm sorry," Evan said automatically. "Tell me something about Mr.

Duff. It may help me to learn the truth.”

She had an ability to stand in one place without looking awkward or moving her hands unnecessarily. She was a woman of peculiar grace.

"He was a very sober man, of deep intelligence," she answered thoughtfully. "He took his responsibilities to heart. He knew a large number of people depended upon his skills and his hard work." She made a small gesture of her hands. "Not merely his family, of course, but also all those whose future lay in the prosperity of his company. And you will understand, he dealt with valuable properties and large amounts of money almost daily." A flicker crossed her face, and her eyes lightened as if a new thought had occurred to her. "I think that is one of the reasons Joel, my husband, found him so easy to speak with. They both understood the burden of responsibility for others, of being trusted, without question. It is an extraordinary thing, Mr.

Evan, to have people place their confidence in you, not only in your skills but in your honour, and take it for granted that you will do for them all that they require.”

"Yes…" he said slowly, thinking that he too was on occasion treated with that kind of blind faith. It was a remarkable compliment, but it was also a burden, when one realised the possibilities of failure.

She was still lost in her thoughts. "My husband is the final judge in so many issues," she went on, not looking at Evan, but at some inner memories of her own. "The decisions upon a boy's academic education, and perhaps even more, his moral education, can affect the rest of his life. In fact I suppose when you speak of the boys who will one day lead our nation, the politicians, inventors, writers and artists of the future, then it may affect us all. No wonder these decisions have to be made with care, and with much searching of conscience, and with absolute selflessness. There can be no evasions into simplicity. The cost of error may never be recovered.”

"Did he have a sense of humour?" The words were out before Evan realised how inappropriate they were.

"I beg your pardon?”

It was too late to withdraw. "Did Mr. Duff have a sense of humour?”

He felt the blush creep up his face.

"No…" She stared back at him in what seemed like a moment's complete understanding, too fragile for words. Then it was gone. "Not that I saw. But he loved music. He played the pianoforte very well, you know? He liked good music, especially Beethoven and occasionally Bach.”