She came back to herself with a start. Latimer was turning the whiskey glass in his fist and gazing into it with a frown. He was still thinking, calculating, scheming. He looked up suddenly and caught her eye.

‘I’m trying to figure out what’s the best thing to do,’ he said. ‘I suppose I will have to break the news to April’s poor mother – if Quirke is right, that is, and April is alive, which I still don’t believe.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.’

‘Aye, maybe you shouldn’t.’

Suddenly Phoebe felt a twinge of fear. He was right, she should have kept quiet, or if she had to speak, she shouldn’t have spoken to this man, of all people.

He brooded for a time, chewing on air, then burst out again, angrily. ‘I thought we were done for good with that bloody girl. She was nothing but heartache to her poor mother, and to the rest of us, from the time she got up out of the cradle and started to make trouble for us all. And of course, there was no talking to her – anything anybody said only made her dig her heels in deeper. To think of how her father treasured her—’ He broke off, giving Phoebe a sharp, measuring glance. She saw him seeing from her look that she knew all too well the extent to which April’s father had treasured his children. ‘Treated her like a princess, he did,’ he went on, challenging her to object, ‘and what return did she give him, only to scald his heart with her scandalous carrying-on? God forgive me for saying it, but she was a brazen bitch.’

He set down his empty glass and squared his shoulders and sighed deeply. He had assumed the role now of a man regretting having allowed himself to be pushed beyond his better judgement by sorrow and righteous anger. Contempt for him rose in Phoebe’s throat like bile.

‘April was my friend,’ she said, lifting her chin and fixing him with a blank, cold gaze. ‘She still is.’

Chapter 23

Latimer ordered yet another whiskey. He was watching Phoebe with a speculative gleam. He was trying to calculate – she could see it plainly – the depth of her knowledge of his family’s secrets, and how much April might have told her. She returned him an unflinching gaze. She was no longer afraid of him. In fact, she wondered if it might not be that he was afraid of her.

‘How well did you know our April, would you say?’ he asked, forcing himself to smile; she could see him struggling with it.

She shrugged. ‘How well is well?’

This angered him, and the smile disappeared; his brow flushed dark red and he clenched his fists in his lap. Oh, yes, he was dangerous.