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cases. I imagine he passed those views on to Alex.”
    Lord Stanmore stood up with icy calm. “I know for certain of only one thing that Colonel Mackendric passed on to her. I’m not interested in any other. If you will excuse me, Fenton, I have work to do. Kindly extend my apologies to the ladies.”
    Fenton continued to sit at the table until the spasms in his hand began to ease; then, leaving the port—which always reminded him of blood—he went in search of a whiskey.

III
    H E LET W INIFRED out in front of her father’s house in Cadogan Square, waited at the curb until one of the footmen had hurried out to help her up the steps, then drove around the corner and parked his car in Pavillion Road. It was barely ten o’clock and he felt keyed up and edgy. It had been an unsettling evening, especially for Winifred, who had said nothing since leaving the Grevilles. She was in an emotional turmoil as it was, and the conversation at dinner hadn’t helped her frame of mind.
    He stood by the car and looked up at the sky. A pale, waxy moon hung above the city, partially obscured by drifting clouds. He hated London at the moment with an almost irrational passion and wished to God they were home in Suffolk spending a normal leave, just he and Winnie and the twins. Taking the boat out and sailing on the Deben, or hitching Rosie to the dogcart and rattling up the road into the village for cider and cheese at the Four Crowns. The colonel on well-deserved leave with his wife and children. Only he wasn’t on leave, he was in limbo, caught in a trap designed by the army high command with Machiavellian thoroughness.
    He had been called back from his post in Ireland the previous November with orders to proceed to the Middle East in January. That order had been canceled before he had even stepped off the boat from Dublin. Instead, he was to report to Wellington Barracks, London, and remain there as a casual until further orders—a “casual” being nothing but a poor bloody sod of an officer with nothing to do but sit around waiting for the powers in Whitehall to have pity and ship him elsewhere. Finally, after eight interminable months, he had been told to report to Horse Guards for posting. Posting where? He had no idea, but would find out at 0900 in the morning.
    He leaned against the car and stared at the sky. Great rifts in the clouds now. The stars beyond. He was not a great believer in God, but surely there was something that controlled the destinies of men, a divine finger that reached down from the stars to stir the trash heaps of the earth. That finger had touched him as it had touched Charles Greville. They were two men forever linked, sharing a common event and perhaps doomed by it.
    He entered Sutton House through the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear, going through the kitchens so as to avoid his father-in-law and his cronies. It was Lord Sutton’s whist night, the gathering larger than usual judging by the trays of food being prepared by cook and her helpers. The marquess still followed the Edwardian custom of dressing his footmen in eighteenth-century livery, and one of them was leaning against a wall in velvet doublet and satin knee breeches, his powdered wig askew, smoking a cigarette and nursing a bottle of beer. He made an attempt to hide both, but Fenton just winked at him as he walked toward the servants’ stairs.
    Winifred was seated at her dressing table removing her makeup when he came into the bedroom.
    â€œDid you see Father?”
    â€œNo. I came in the back way.” He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. “That chap Fenworth is with the group tonight. I spotted his limousine and driver. I’m sure he was invited so that we could have a little chat at the mellow end of the evening.”
    â€œWhy not go down and have it?”
    â€œBecause he’ll press me for a decision on that job offer. Christ! Fenworth Building