her, but now he spoke softly, for her ears onlyâAnd Liza stood, her eyes wide, looking up the room at them, feeling all security crumble around her.
Then the woman, this Mary, stepped back out of Brianâs arms and looked up at him, and spoke in an odd, carrying voice.
âBut why?â she said. âYouâre soâexcited, my dear. It wouldnât have brought him back to life. Why was it soâ?â He was looking down at her and there was, apparently, something in his eyes which answered her question. Because now she stepped still farther back and said, âBrian! You canât! Why youââ
Then Weigand, who had been watching the two, stepped forward and interrupted.
âNow,â he said, and allowed his voice to carry, as the womanâs had done, ânow I think weâre all here, at last. Your sonâs been anxious to find you, Mrs. Halder. So have we.â
âButââ she said. âWho are you?â
Weigand told her; his identity seemed to astonish her.
âYes, Mrs. Halder,â Weigand said. âWeâre investigating your husbandâs death. Because he was murdered, Mrs. Halder.â
But then, Liza thought, and something which had been like an iron band around her chest relaxed, was suddenly goneâbut then, sheâs Brianâs mother! Not somebody else!
It was easier to realize this as, with Weigand and the Norths, with Brian Halderâs arm around his motherâs shoulders (but it didnât matter, now; it was all right, now) they came down toward the others by the tall windows. Mrs. Mary Halder was young to be Brianâs mother; she was slender and quick as a girl. But she wasnât a girl; she must, Liza thought, be about forty. As old as that!
Then Brian was introducing them. âLiza, this is my mother. Mary, Liza.â Mary Halder was looking at her, looking at her slowly, carefullyâat her body, her dress, most of all at her face. The gaze was not hostile; it was not even, or did not quite seem to be, appraising. And yet, Liza thought, it must be that only itâs soâso impersonal. But then Mary Halder smiled and held out her hand.
âSheâs sweet, Brian,â she said. âAnd so pretty, isnât she?â
Yet even the praise was somehow impersonal.
âSheââ Brian began, and Liza found she was waiting, waiting anxiously, to hear what Brian would say. But he was not allowed to finish.
âMary,â Jennifer Halder said. âMy dear. Itâs all so dreadful! They say he wasâwas killed!â Then she said, and this was to the scrubbed blond man, âIsnât it awful, Piney?â
âTragic,â the man called Piney said, as if he had been rehearsing the word in his mind. He shook his head, seemingly to give emphasis to the word. Then he repeated it, in a slightly deeper tone. âTragic.â Then he turned to Liza and said, again as if he had formed the words earlier in his mind, âNobody will remember to introduce us, Miss OâBrien. Iâm Sherman Pine.â He held out a well-shaped, well-cared for, hand. Liza looked quickly to Brian as she took Pineâs hand, but Brian was not looking at her, not looking at Pine. He was looking around at the othersâat his brother, his brotherâs Jennifer; at the Whitesides, lieutenant colonel and lady.
âNow that youâre all here,â Lieutenant Weigand said, âI wish youâd sit down. I want to talk to you for a momentâto all of you. About what has happened.â
He waited, expectantly; the others found chairs, the Norths outside the circle; Mr. North, she thought, hesitantly, after some passage of the eyes between him and Weigand, between both of them and Mrs. North. Liza herself stood for some seconds uncertainly, feeling more than ever strange among these peopleâthese people of Brianâsâand yet, because they were Brianâs, and he was one of
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