Bound by Gold Chains: Edwards and Hutchings Murder Mysteries, #2

By R. D. Blake

Leaving St. Milborn-Under-the Hill and the murders that had been committed there, David Hutchings and Clare Edwards want to believe the chief part of the guilt and the loneliness and, too, the punishment for their past sins are now behind them, that the budding dawn of a new day is waiting there in London for the two of them as they return to England's greatest city. All they have to do is to turn their faces toward its glow to feel its invigorating warmth and the promise of a new life together.

Little are they aware that death continues to stalk them, ponderously and relentlessly. Just as they discover they are not truly free of their pasts, they soon find themselves once again entangled in a series of murders that have as their source events from an age now thought irrelevant and best left discarded on the rubbish heap of history. They realize, as they did in St. Milborns, that the past never cedes its right to exist. It stretches out its dead hands to continually warp and distort the present and the future.

David and Clare thought they had found a path toward redemption and forgiveness through each other. That they might finally be healed. They soon find that hope to be as ethereal as the reasons for these murders. For every new uncovered fact and connection to the deceased brings no greater clarity, only added confusion and less substance to the possible theories for their gruesome passings. Yet even as David's and Clare's nascent relationship founders and then breaks as a further outcome of the deaths surrounding them, the impetus for the solution is found in their renewed pain and desolation, in the lies and the loss of trust in each other, and in the danger that lurks steadily closer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. D. Blake
• Release date: Jul 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9780987982698

R. D. Blake

R.D. Blake recently retired from a successful accounting and business career. Even as a child, he had an interest in science in general and space in particular and loved reading science fiction. As a parent, he enjoyed entertaining his young children with inane and wild stories he would make up on the spot. And now he is turning that interest and talent toward a larger audience. He currently resides in Kitchener, Ontario Canada.

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Prologue

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July 17, 1953

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It was ironic that they should meet on this date, though the man in the non-descript grey suit imagined his tablemate possessed no great awareness of that particular literary technique or the significance of the events that had unfolded on this very day so many long years ago. To those born in these current times, it had already receded into the remote past, during an era that most of this new generation considered unimportant and irrelevant. But that was egregiously wrong. Their very purpose in this current assignation had its roots in the past: a very particular and, in a sense, peculiar one.

Hadn’t the last twenty years of his life been more or less consumed with what might finally have its culmination in the coming months? He certainly hoped so. He had sacrificed his promising career for this project. Of course, there had been many other assignments over that span of years, though none as enduring and as significant as this one. Seldom was there an opportunity to return home. The time spent away from his wife and four children—who were more strangers to him, and he to them, as each year passed onto the next—was a burden he bore stoically, if not willingly. Yet... The same argument repeated itself in his mind—as it had on countless other occasions over the years. If success was achieved, his future would be assured—as it would be for his family. Likely, very little could be explained, but what he could share with them might end their confusion and growing animosity, and they would see him in a different light. And that—that had come to supersede the financial and professional prizes he had been promised.

Nothing stronger than tea today, Basil? Are you anticipating my news might place a strain on your delicate constitution? Her lips lifted into a smile, though her eyes retained their usual frosty haughtiness. I suppose it could...or perhaps I’m reading you all wrong, and it’s eagerness you’re attempting to conceal from me. The lissom woman across from him cradled her chin on her clasped hands—hands he had intimately studied on the infrequent times they had been ordered to meet. Basil surmised them to be quick—and lethal—just as he suspected of her entire compact body. Should I order the same? Are my faculties, poor as they are in comparison to yours, required to be unimpaired and at their full effectiveness?

You can decide for yourself, Stella. As you do with most things.

It was true as far as Basil knew. Their superiors had never clarified who was truly in charge of what were hoped to be the final chapters in the project, which was unsettling to say the least for a man of his heritage. But he had lived with the ambiguity and the chaining of himself to unwanted and undesirable people and responsibilities over the long course of his career, as it was indeed with this assignment, and as he supposed was the case for Stella herself—though he expected, as the project neared its last days, she might well declare herself his superior, vexing and problematic as that would prove to be.

They only knew each other by their first names, which for him was not even the false one he had assumed upon entering England more than fifteen years ago. There were times when he would go through an entire day and not once call himself by the one given him by his parents. And he was certain Stella had another name she operated under in whatever occupation she had found for herself here in London. Superficially, she appeared to be just one more of a great flood of young English women who had infiltrated into the great city after the end of the war and had chosen to remain. Her trendy clothes defined her as an office clerk in one of the innumerable establishments carrying on business in the middle of London. Her jewellery, on the other hand, made him suspect she had secured a position higher and of broader extent than that of an entry level one. Or it might all be a subterfuge she was playing on him. But weren’t they both actors? Perhaps, he more than her? Still, he believed it likely he would never come to learn the full truth of her.

Over the past year, after they had first met, Basil had never enquired, and he was certain Stella would have demurred and only said her occupation was unimportant—but he believed she knew much more about him than he of her—in fact, he suspected she had a full dossier on his background and his part in this venture—unlike himself, who still had no clear picture of what her ultimate role was intended to be. Still, he suspected. He just didn’t understand the need for it, if he was right about her.

As the waitress appeared and took Stella’s order—tea just as he himself had ordered, though she had requested Ceylonese as opposed to the Burmese variety he preferred, it gave him a moment to study her again. Her complexion and atypical features, much like his own, prevented anyone from suspecting their true origins. All whose eyes lingered on them, seated as they were in this mid-city eating establishment, would never consider them as other than a typical English couple, despite the rather obvious disparity in their ages: friends or related by family; business acquaintances; or perhaps something more intimate, even bordering on or beyond what the Anglican Church would approve. Outside of his unusual dimensions, most would consider his current doctored appearance bland enough not to merit a second look. That was not true of Stella.

By English standards, she was an attractive woman. But equally so, it was defined by her posture and gestures, the manner in which she would gaze about the room, or at him, the moods so expressive on her face—they would attract a certain amount of riveted attention in and by themselves. Was that, too, all an act with her? Simply for him, or was it for others who might be watching them? Basil tried not to imagine too much. That path led to delusion and even madness.

Thus far, he had not replied to her statement. And by her noted lack of interest, it appeared she had not expected an answer. He busied himself with a first sip from his cup of tea and the buttering of a complementary scone that was the standard fare offered here. A minute later, Stella’s beverage was dutifully delivered. Consistent with her habits, she stirred in a half-spoon of white sugar and added a good dollop of cream. "You’re displaying remarkable restraint, Basil, considering how long you have been working in the background on this. It makes me wonder if I can put off telling you until you’ve ordered me dinner—and paid for it. Why don’t you just come out and ask me what is of so great importance our superiors have ordered me to rendezvous with you?"

Basil cleared his throat, then took a longer draw on his tea, afterwards using his cloth napkin to dab at his lips. Perhaps he had been too long in England and had accustomed himself to the sense of decorum which indwelt the vast majority of its inhabitants. But even their home country had its rules and expectations surrounding what comprised good manners. The directness of her question was indirectly ridiculing him—and asserting her superiority in contrast to what she had earlier remarked as his greater intellect compared to her own. The situation made him want to grind his teeth. Nevertheless, he would assume the same implacability and urbane mannerisms he employed in his official undercover persona. He would not be goaded into responding with a sharp reply, uncertain as he was of what Stella was to pass onto him. Her preening, superficial or otherwise, moved him to be more cautious than was his usual wont. Yet the moment had come. She was forcing him to approach her as a supplicant.

Then I will do so. What have our superiors asked you to pass onto me? He said it with a surfeit of calmness with which he had been trained, none of which he was feeling at the moment.

"One of my sources has informed me that he has finally made his move."

Your sources? Excuse me, Stella, but I was under the impression the people arranged to monitor the situation were entirely under my control.

She stared back at him, a cruel, condescending, almost pitying expression filling her delicately-formed face. She was conveying to him that he was in error in at least two regards: his impressions and that of the issue of control. Basil thought it pointless to pursue the matter. And it would be just as prudent to defer from asking her just who her sources were. He decided to take a different tack.

Is there anything else to communicate to me? Orders? he added as a second question, choosing to let her believe she had the upper hand at the moment. Two could play at this game. And he had been at it for close to more years than this young woman had been given life.

"Nothing else at the moment, other than to inform your own people of the fact. Who knows? Eventually, they might prove to be of some value, though I doubt it. And you do understand you are to continue to keep them in the dark?"

"Of course. As I would expect of you with regard to your own source," Basil replied, unable to completely resist stinging her with his own barb.

The merest sharpening of her eyes, the slightest thinning of her lips, were the only signs she gave of being nettled by his remark. It would be most unfortunate if that was to occur—for either of us, she replied, gazing down at her extended fingers and flexing them with steely and avaricious strength. But far more for them. No one can be allowed to know. That is the one stipulation our superiors have made abundantly clear to us, above all others.

Her statement required no response. It was a fact of life for both of them, in the responsibilities and roles they had been asked to assume.

She leaned in toward him, fixing her eyes upon him. "I was also ordered to ask you if there is anything to impart to me."

Basil allowed a frown to crease his brow. His superiors had communicated nothing of the sort to him. For close to a month now, he had gleaned little that was new from his own sources or his own independent investigations. It had been a waiting game for the most part. So...what was the purpose of Stella’s question? Did his own superiors doubt him? Suspect something else? Or was she acting on her own? To disparage him? Either to demonstrate that he was incompetent in his role, having nothing to report, or to prove to their superiors that he was withholding information from them? Or was she simply pumping him for her own reasons? Basil sat back and eyed the remainder of his scone. He opted to finish off his cup of tea while he formulated a response.

Next to little, as compared to what you have passed onto me. Nothing that I think pertains to what we hope will come next.

Stella appeared momentarily amused. Whether she believed him or not, she turned to a different theme. My own hope is that the tediousness of this assignment will be over, sooner rather than later. I’m not one who finds waiting a satisfactory pastime. Basil did not doubt this was another insult directed at him. It was a challenge he would not respond to—indeed, it had been far too many years—he couldn’t contest her assertion. Still, I know little of the details concerning your aspect of this operation or of your other roles over the years. And I will not press you to tell me. I know better than to attempt that with you. No doubt, our superiors would find out and that would only jeopardise me in a very personal way. Basil nodded slowly, understanding exactly the peril that would create for this young woman sitting across from him, though not the reason for her bringing the topic up at this moment. "All I understand is a key is involved to decode the message."

In a manner of speaking. Whoever prepared it, understood the ramifications. It is written in clear enough language, at least superficially. Still, if it is what we suspect, the writer occluded the real message somewhere in the plain text.

And?

"Once he has the answer, I don’t doubt he will act and that is when we will initiate our own plans."

That is the other part of what I am here to tell you. I, too, am preparing myself to act. Stella began to gather her purse and the light jacket she had brought along.

Basil wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but he was too afraid to do so. As she stood up, she must have seen through what little subterfuge he could muster. Don’t worry, Basil. Your purpose has always been to play a different role. Mine? She leaned down as if she was intending to kiss his cheek. Mine was set long ago. I am what I am. And though it might go against the tenets of your beliefs, consider me the Hand of God. Our superiors do. None must know. The secret we are to uncover cannot be left to be shared with anyone else or to be discovered by their own means. Her eyes flashed a warning. And that applies to your sources—and mine. If you fail to keep them ignorant of what you are up to, then...I will be ordered to correct your mistake.

She left him, moving quickly, agile as ever, as was her wont. Basil looked down at his unfinished scone and the dregs of his tea, feeling a definite aversion to partaking further of either of them. Though Stella had not said it explicitly, he understood clearly. It was something he was familiar with, had had a reluctant hand in himself at times in the past. Death. Death would rise up and strike—assuredly and without mercy—just as it had happened all those long years ago.

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Chapter One

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September 19, 1953

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Are you certain, Clare? I can wait for you. I almost feel I’m intruding on sacred ground.

No, I want you here with me. I’ve kept Geoffrey’s grave as a personal shrine for far too long. It’s time for me to take the next step.

The two of them proceeded deeper into the military cemetery on the outskirts of London, Clare leading the way. David thought he had more than an inkling of the emotions stirring within the woman slightly ahead of him. He could feel enough of his own, surrounded as they were by rows and rows of headstones laid out with martial precision. So many lives, so many abrupt endings, so many futures that had been severed as if with a snap of one’s fingers. If it was possible, and he would but allow it, he imagined his ears would detect their still plaintive voices: that they had deserved better than this, that their lives should not have been forfeited as the result of the twisted worldview of a few impossibly self-centred men.

It was a typical English morning. Wisps of fog still clung to the boughs of the trees and gathered about the flower gardens interspersed at the interstices where the quadrants of the graveyard met. The sun was waging war with the low-scudding clouds crowding in from the coast. Here and there, a beam would break through temporarily and cause the veils of mist to shimmer mystically, illuminating sections of the pale memorials, the last earthly representatives of the spirits of the men chained and laid underneath these sombre grounds, as if still standing at attention and awaiting heaven’s call. At times, the sun touched both he and Clare, adding needed warmth to a cold duty. David hoped being here with her today would break more of the wintery rime that still clung hard-fast to the two of them.

Clare walked purposely, chin drawn in, shoulders squared. David knew it had been more than a full year since last she had been here. In a way it was inexplicable—considering how deeply she had loved her brother. Unexpectedly, she veered right, if anything, her pace quickening. David allowed a greater gap to grow between them, thinking it might be proper to give her a few moments alone with her brother.

She came to an abrupt halt, turning to face toward a white grave marker. It was indistinguishable from the rest. The only discernible difference was the lack of flowers at its base. But that was about to change. David came to a stop, hesitating to draw nearer. Though her eyes were fixed on the headstone, her hand rose, thrusting itself toward him, open, waiting. No words were necessary; he understood her wish. There was still so much to understand about this woman, so full of startling contrasts, but in this—in this he felt he could interpret her need with full assurance.

David stepped forward and grasped her hand, intertwining his digits with her delicate ones, squeezing gently, communicating his support.

It might have been a minute, possibly as long as two, before Clare stirred. Yet she said nothing. It was not so much that she was shuttering herself away from him—it was more akin to waiting for the right moment. There is... He felt a tremor in her hand, a tightening about his fingers that conveyed a mounting tension.

Tell me, Clare. Tell me. No matter how hard it may be. How you might fear what I might think. Say it and be free.

Still, it was some moments before she began. It’s just that... Her chin dipped downwards, her eyes closing. It always comes back to me... Some of the last words, Geoffrey said to me before he left for the train. That final time.

Yes, go on.

She shook her head, tightly, minutely, as if another part of her did not wish the words to be uttered into the surrounding silence—rather, to keep them safely stored away, for her only to ruminate over time and time again until they finally tore her asunder. Then purpose formed along the line of her brow and she spoke again. He said... He said, ‘Don’t fear, Clare. Don’t worry over me. It will all turn out right in the end. Believe in that as you’ve always believed in us. Even when I’m away, I always feel that you’re right there by my side. That, dear sister, will never end. No matter...’ Tears began to spill from brimming eyelids to wet her face. But he knew. He knew, David. He knew he wasn’t coming back... And those words, those words were his goodbye to me. He was saying that death would never part us. But it did. It truly did. And I have missed him so terribly since then. I still do. I will forever and ever. He was a brother but so much more: a soul who knew me better than any other and accepted and loved me so deeply. I didn’t want it to end. No, and it shouldn’t have!

David was suddenly unsure. Clare stood so rigidly, so fixed to the ground, a bare and limbless bole that had borne the harsh winds and gales of one of life’s worst hardships for far too many years. In this moment, it seemed ready to snap, the last of its upright remains finally brought down to the hard and unyielding earth. He didn’t know if he should embrace her, if that intended comfort would only cause the pain to worsen, if to enfold her would only cover over the long-borne hurt and cause it to fester and deepen within her soul. That she had been willing to confess this much, and to him, said much: both of her need and her trust in him.

He chose, instead, to move slightly toward her, inching himself so that their shoulders touched, that they could share some of the warmth of their bodies on this cool morning. She accepted that, shifting to lean into him. But no more.

Do you understand, David? Do you? Can you begin to fathom how much Geoffrey meant to me? Lord knows, I’ve tried to cover it up. From my parents, my friends, oh, so much from Allan, from my colleagues over the years...even...even from you.

Understand? To be honest, Clare, I’m only beginning to. Just like so much else between us. David tightened his hand about hers. Simply put, he was more than most brothers are to their sisters. He might have been born before you, but I think from what you have said, the two of you shared one soul.

Her head came to rest against his shoulder, her hand returning and adding more pressure to his. Yes, yes that is what it was, and it was shattered when we received word that he had died. And like a flower’s petals, they dropped one by one during that horrible, horrible funeral and the last one fell here when his casket was laid to rest in the ground.

And there was no one with whom to share what you felt? A chuff suddenly erupted from his chest. You must think it idiotic of me, at least totally inane, to ask you that question when I...I...

She looked up at him for the first time since they had arrived in the cemetery, raising her other hand to wipe at her damp face. We’ve both carried so much inside ourselves. For far too long. It has to end and that is why I’m here. With you. If we’re ever to...

Yes, it hasn’t been as easy as I first thought it would be. It’s hard to let go. To change habits that you and I have both employed for years now. To trust each other. To be as open as we both wish to be.

But we are making ‘progress,’ as the psychologists like to say. Clare glanced down at their hands intertwined together. At least I’d like to think so, hope so. Her dark eyes searched his for his answer. David wished he could give her an unequivocal reply: one that contained not an iota of doubt. But he still had them. No, not in Clare, but in himself. Was she not demonstrating how much trust she was placing in him by bringing him here? By what she had just confessed?

She didn’t wait out his silence. Perhaps that was answer enough, inadequate and misleading as it was. Maybe it’s time to go, she remarked breathily.

He thought her statement filled with reluctance. That in fact, there was still some further purpose to being here. And that he was failing her miserably. We can stay as long as you want. As long as you need. We have the entire day.

She shook her head in sharp negation, leaving him to go to her knees to place the flowers she had brought along at the front of the headstone. A bouquet of white begonias with a sprig of myrtle wound within the spray. When she was finished and had stood up again, David took that as his cue to add his own: a clutch of late season poppies. They stood together, not touching this time.

Silent, giving the moment its due reverence, they gazed down at the grave marker, then allowed their eyes to roam farther afield, taking in the other memorials surrounding them, soberly acknowledging the men who had also given their all for their nation. It was at times such as these when David felt the guilt welling up in him. He should be here, his body interred in like manner with all of these others. Why did he continue to live? By everything that was right and just, he should be among the dead: one more meaningless death, a single numeric digit that had contributed next to nothing to the victory obtained for England and its allies.

Clare stirred beside him, drawing him out of the morbid and troubling thoughts that, despite her presence, still continued to throb inside him: thoughts he was not yet willing to share with her. To confess to more of his weakness. The guilt that he had not yet been able to fully escape. Do you think he lies at peace, David? Forgive me for saying it in this way, but is there such a thing as that in heaven?

The clergy would attest to it being true. That being with God rids us of our doubts, of the pain we have experienced. Do you think it false? Tell me, Clare. Among everything else, does that trouble you?

I don’t know. Maybe...maybe it’s me who has no peace. That I can’t get past the longing. The anger. She turned to him then, looking up at him fully. Take me away from here. I thought—oh, I don’t know what I had hoped for. Just some sort of change. But I can’t find it. Not here. Not today. All I’m reliving are the feelings when my family and I came here for the first time. Do you know my parents never returned? They couldn’t...

Couldn’t face it any more than you could? I know it’s trite to say it, but I regret not having met your brother. And in that, and in accompanying you here today, I believe I have garnered some greater understanding of you.

A brittle smile slid onto her face, tenuous and not lasting long. Then, perhaps, this has not been a complete waste of time. But I do mean it: take me away. Let’s find somewhere to eat. An apologetic cast flashed across her countenance. Maybe my mood will improve with that. Sorry.

Don’t be. Any place, as long as we’re together, is a balm to my own soul.

She kissed him then, an act that caught him unawares and lingered. Sometimes, I think you the most eloquent man God has ever placed on this Earth, she breathed out, her mouth still close to his. That you know me as no other. The sun broke through again where they stood, a welcomed embrace that reminded them that despite the losses they still held close within their hearts, there was much yet to garner and to gain in the chill world surrounding them.

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They returned to central London, only a dozen blocks away from her flat. Contrary to what Clare was coming to believe was a consistency in David’s habits, he took her to a dining establishment known for its French cuisine. She, herself, had never been here, but the restaurant possessed an excellent reputation duly reflected in the prices listed on its menu: hence her own reasons for not having dined here on any earlier occasion. As they waited to be seated, she wondered, not for the first time, at the amount of money David had spent on her over the past two and a half months. A junior professorship was not a position that enabled one to be a spendthrift.

More than once, she had considered offering to contribute to the cost of their outings. But as she viewed the man standing by her side, she thought he would only interpret her proposal as an affront. He might laud her as a modern woman, but he was still mired in an earlier age. She had decided she would accept that in him, as with other facets of his personality. No man was suited perfectly to any woman. God knew, it was certainly not true of herself. Most days, she still felt herself a mess of contradictions. Though not now. Not with those words he had said to her. Little more than an hour later, and they still resonated deeply inside her, in that magical moment suturing the bleeding wounds in her broken heart, and lifting her out of the dull greyness that engulfed her whenever her thoughts turned to Geoffrey.

And now, presently, having been seated, her eyes flitted over the top of the menu to regard him again. What a wonder he was proving himself to be. How she felt her life had a living heartbeat again. That she just might...

Has Mademoiselle had sufficient time to consider what she might choose to enjoy? Their waiter, a dapper, moustachioed Frenchman named Claude, had returned and was standing by their table, the apron about his thin waist as crisp and clean and as brilliant a white as their tablecloth, Claude, Clare had already decided, was as much a part of the décor as the rest of the establishment. He fit with the atmosphere as rightly as everything else and brought the usual emotions bubbling to the surface when she was presented with a cogent and appropriately co-ordinated scene.

Clare twisted her lips slightly as she turned her attention to the menu again. She had been having a silent debate between two possibilities. She sensed nothing from David. No cautionary vibes. She decided, for today, she would allow frugality to decide for her. I feel like something light at the moment. Perhaps the Romaine lettuce ensemble with two dashes of the Bordeaux creamed salad dressing instead of one. Oh, and a Rochelle croissant with butter on the side. Water is sufficient for now, unless David thinks otherwise.

Of course, Mademoiselle. A very good choice. If you permit, I would also suggest the Vichyssoise as a first course. The chef—it is one he is known for. And it prepares the palette. You comprehend?

Clare silently admitted to herself that Claude was a well-accomplished waiter. He had sized her up quickly by her appearance and selections and knew, it would seem intrinsically, what else might appeal to her tastes and, more importantly, what would match perfectly with the rest of her choices. So very French of him. Yes, thank you. I agree.

Claude smiled deeply, bowing his head as gracefully as he moved the rest of his body. D’accord. He turned to David. And you, Monsieur? What are your wishes on this fine day and with your beautiful companion? If their waiter had been other than French, Clare would have been affronted by such a declaration, but she thought it likely Claude said much the same of even the plainest of women. David ordered a more substantial meal, which was not surprising. The man could eat—though it seemed not to cling to him as it did with most other men approaching their mid-thirties. After David had ordered them a light table wine, a vintage he had some familiarity with, and appreciation for, from his time in France during the war, they both watched Claude sinuously depart with their orders. Once he entered through the swinging doors into the kitchen, their eyes swung back to take each other in.

There was an undefined gleam, close to smouldering, in David’s eyes as he silently regarded her. Clare sensed a blush rising to her cheeks, her throat slowly closing. Had it been that comment of Claude’s about her? Was that what was revolving in his mind as he studied her? It brought to the fore so forcibly the question that continued to lurk inside her. What did David really see in her? Could she possibly be all that she imagined he desired—what any man hoped to have in a woman—a woman like herself who still believed herself damaged—and unworthy?

What are you thinking about right now? The cemetery? Geoffrey?

Clare blinked. David was so far off the mark in this moment—which she had to admit in a startled way was rare of him. She thought herself so much an open book when it came to him. Just like this morning with those tender remarks of needing her. She didn’t want to admit to the doubts she was currently contemplating. Instead, she answered in a manner she hoped was true yet would work to divert both him and her to a more pleasant and comforting conversation. No. I want to set that aside. Think it through, now that we’ve both been there. No, I...I was just...David, is this really happening—between us, I mean? Sometimes, it still feels like a dream.

He sat back from her, drawing himself up in his chair—as if he was facing a panel of his peers and defending a paper before them. His eyes remained fixed on her, but his lips were pursing. Then he smiled, a wry one. At least you didn’t refer to it as a nightmare. In no way has it been like that for me. There was that dry humour of his again—which he employed whenever he wished to belittle himself. Clare thought it unnecessary. But again, who was she to judge? On far too many occasions, she made use of her own defensive ploys to cover up the guilt and the pain she felt. David continued on. But I suppose we still have a ways to go, Clare. There’s far more to understand about each other. Our pasts in particular. Like earlier this morning. But too, the future we both wish for ourselves. Admittedly, we haven’t travelled any great distance down that road yet. Is that what you’re referring to? What you’re asking me?

Before she could form a response, Claude arrived with their first courses, and accorded their presentation with an appropriate amount of Gallic fussiness before leaving them to partake of the Vichyssoise and David’s serving of brochette. Still, she wished to give him a reply before they began to concentrate on their meals. I suppose I mean all of that, including what happened in St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill. It’s more like I’ve been reborn—or more precisely, in the process of being made so: that, as you said, there can be a different future for me, for you, and for us, more than I thought possible only a few months ago. I suppose chiefly it’s hope: something I feel I lost a long time ago.

His hand found hers and caressed it. Yes, I think that, too, is what is filling me most these days. Hope. And with that said, they smiled at each other, drinking each other in for several deeper moments before setting in on their cold soup and skewers of lightly breaded fish.

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Their conversation had been light thereafter, mostly conventional, though David attempted to gently broach the topic of their morning trek into the cemetery. But as she had already conveyed to him, her emotions were still too much in a state of froth to sort out if anything had been accomplished, if her feelings for her brother could finally have their own resting place. It had been a trial to venture into the domain where Geoffrey would ever remain fixed in her mind, whether there was a heaven or not beyond this world. Oh! The doubts she continued to harbour despite her need for faith and her continued observance of the Christian rites and tenets.

Ever since David had appeared out of the mists at Charing Cross and had turned the despair and resignation she had felt, believing her life would forever remain unchanged, into a new morning full of light and promise, which had more than equalled the atmosphere they had stepped out into from the train station together, he had proven himself intimately concerned for her welfare—no, much more than that—for her healing—for her recovery. Just as it had been this morning when she had suddenly changed their plans and had more or less dragooned him into visiting Geoffrey’s grave. David had exhibited no frustration at her abruptness—at how little effort she had made in communicating a need that she was still trying to understand herself. She lifted her eyes to take him in again. What an answer to prayer he was. What a true godsend. Now, here she was waxing eloquent in spiritual terms when just a moment ago she had been dwelling on her doubts. Clare could not refute it; these current vacillations had their source in what had always troubled her most: Geoffrey’s passing.

Maybe...perhaps, what she was undergoing—what had been occurring within her since Charing Cross, what had likely started in St. Milborn-Under-the-Hill—was an exorcism. The demons she had allowed to exist within her were being wrenched out one at a time. No wonder she felt as she did. Seldom was healing absent either pain or turmoil.

Salad finished, Clare set her cutlery aside and attempted to do the same with her meandering and maudlin thoughts. She was focusing too much on herself. Perhaps she should blame David for that—for the attention he lavished upon her. How often had she considered the situation unfair? That she wasn’t returning it in an equal amount? That she wasn’t helping him as much as he was her in dealing with his own fractured past? Well, for what remained of their time together today, and as a means to shift the focus away from herself, she would endeavour to be his priest, his physician. And the easiest way to begin was to...

How go your classes? You’ve had a number of weeks with your young men now. And what about that second-year course Dr. Asquith assigned to you?

David lifted an eyebrow, not answering immediately, still chewing on the second to last morsel of his blanquette du veau. Clare almost regretted not ordering it herself after he had shared a bite with her. Once done, glancing down with rueful regret, he dabbed at his lips before setting his napkin aside.

Well enough. No real surprises. The boys fall into the usual categories: the uninterested; the earnest but mediocre; the unimaginative plodders; the not-unexpected few who believe themselves vastly more intelligent than their instructor and who seek out every opportunity to prove it (David smiled indulgently at her), only to reveal themselves abject failures in that regard (Clare had to stifle a giggle); and the one or two who show real promise and make all the headaches with the rest well worth the effort.

I suppose that is true of all academia, thinking back to my own time at St. Vincents. And is that also true of your second-year students? You’re not having any difficulties with them outside of the usual?

Clare, I believe you might be politely and indirectly asking if I am finding the course material too much of a challenge.

No, no, I—I don’t doubt you can handle it. It’s—well, the boys would have had a full year to acclimatize themselves to the school and be another year older. More sure of themselves. I suppose that’s what is behind my question. Don’t think for a moment that I would ever hold any uncertainties with regard to your academic abilities. Clare felt the colour rushing to her cheeks. Here, she was trying to encourage him, and David was interpreting her question in a negative manner.

He didn’t answer her immediately, taking a moment to look out the window where their table was situated, his eyes flitting over the people passing by outside, employing that unconscious technique of his: assessing, rating, calculating, interpreting—classifying any who might pose a threat. It made her wonder what he was thinking about—if he was even here with her—or back in the past, back in Germany, reliving the part of his life he wanted to escape. Was she the only living soul who knew that side of him, who had some understanding of what moved under that rugged male exterior—the only one he trusted?

He turned back to her, and she knew by the manner in which he smiled at her that he had entirely returned to the living, and to her. Dr. Asquith ensured I would have no such difficulties. My own major was in Mesopotamian history, and my aborted doctoral thesis was on the period included in one section of the course material. There’s hardly a need to prepare the lecture notes. David tapped the side of his head. It’s all here, properly ordered, and fully ready to be poured into the eager young minds of my students.

But you’ve begun again, haven’t you? To complete your thesis? Clare had been surprised enough when David announced he had decided to finish his doctrinal paper on the Akkadian empire and several arcane (to her) aspects of Sargon’s own reign during that by-gone age.

That was part of the bargain Dr. Asquith struck with me. Some greater responsibility and trust in my abilities. But with further expectations on his part.

Not necessarily an unfair proposition, I would think.

No, if anything, I can’t help feeling he’s pushing me on for my own good.

To use a boxing metaphor, a sport I abhor by the way, he’s in your corner?

David chuckled, at the same time employing his fork to stab that last piece of veal. He chewed vigorously, definitely revealing his roguish side which she could not help but find appealing, be it as it may that it went well beyond the bounds of good manners. In the moment, he reminded her of Geoffrey in one of his sillier moods. Considering the morning and where they had been, it did not make her sad making the comparison.

An apt analogy. One, frankly, I still do not understand fully. With everyone else, he tends to be brass tacks, and he’s not disinclined to employ a sledge hammer, if and when he believes someone is not pulling their full weight on behalf of the faculty.

Perhaps he sees something in you which he finds lacking in your academic colleagues. Something holding some greater promise. Clare found herself smiling at the thought, considering it not an impossible proposition.

David frowned momentarily. Obviously, he did not believe that of himself. Instead of issuing a rebuttal, his expression became tentative. I’ve been meaning to tell you. More precisely, ask you. Once each semester, the history department hosts a function for the entire arts faculty. I—I’m hoping it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition if you would attend with me. It would give you a broader perspective of the type of life I have chosen for myself. If—if it wouldn’t...

Embarrass you too much?

David sat back, alarm filling his face. No, no! That is the furthest thing from my mind. No, I’m afraid they are rather dull affairs. My fear is you’ll be bored out of your mind. Believe me, it doesn’t take long before several full-blown arguments begin. Debates over the most arcane of facts—some of which have been simmering for what appear to be decades—commence out of the mildest of rejoinders. Full scale sorties and counter-attacks arise as one, then another, attempt to prove their opponents in error.

Seems to me that might be entertainment enough, Clare replied with a bud of amusement lifting her lips into another smile. They came so effortlessly in David’s presence. But are you certain you really want me there? I’m no academic despite graduating from St. Vincents—as you are fully aware. What would any of them have in common with a woman who works in a commercial enterprise? Most likely, they would think me rather plain and uninteresting.

No, I’d be surprised if they would ever consider you in that way. He regarded her in a manner that was definitely male, meaning it was not her intellectual or academic faculties he was contemplating at the moment. Clare didn’t mind it so much when it was David who was doing it. He did it often enough, most often when he believed her attention was elsewhere. She had come to accept the fact that, for him, she possessed a certain quantity of physical attraction. And truth be told, he did for her. It would be so effortless to sink into those vivid blue eyes and rest easy in his inclusive smiles when he chose to grace her with one. She supposed that was the manner in which most relationships commenced—a physical attraction. Yes, they had it for each other, but of course, with their sordid and troubling pasts, it had not formed the beginning of their association with each other. No, circumstances in St. Milborns had not allowed for that being the source, though without that death in the small village, nestled in the Lake District of England, there would have been no possibility of any kind of relationship whatsoever.

She was still considering the form of retort she should offer in return when David continued on and disrupted the orderly flow of her thoughts. Not that I expect the men will trouble themselves to take more than a few minutes to become acquainted with you. No, chiefly, you’ll likely end up conversing with their wives. That’s behind my hesitations with inviting you.

So it will be a segregated affair? The men will hold court on the lofty ideals of their fields of study whilst the women are left to cluster together and discuss the more mundane aspects of life: family, children, their social calendars, and the current rounds of gossip circulating about the city regarding the new queen and the royal family. Clare felt herself becoming warm.

David’s face took on a pained expression. I don’t know exactly what the women discuss, but I fear you might be close to the truth on the matter. Look, if you’d rather not come with me, I fully understand. These women...and my associates...the majority are not snobs. For the most part, they’re as ordinary as we are. And warm-hearted. They’ve all, at sometime or other in their lives, faced similar situations. I—I’m certain I could arrange for Dr. Asquith’s wife to watch over you.

Clare snapped her head in negation. I don’t need a babysitter. But yes, I’ll go with you. As you said, I need to have a greater appreciation of your world. How could I refuse with your indulging me this morning? I’m certain it wasn’t easy for you. So...if there is a certain amount of awkwardness, better said, a challenge, it’s only equitable that I undertake the same for you. Consider the matter settled.

David began to say something in response when Claude returned to clear away their dishes, enquiring on what they might wish for dessert, suggesting in his Gaelic fashion that they would not regret requesting the Poire Belle Hélène—another of the chef’s specialties.