Then for a while because of the noise, they were silent. Isabel did not look at the man, she was busy trying not to be sick. She closed her eyes, but all the time she had the curious sensation that she could feel the man’s thoughts beside her, she could feel him wondering about the word “murder.” It’s because the love could never get through, she said to him silently. And it seemed extraordinary, like a miracle, that here in the plane she had talked to a perfect stranger, that a perfect stranger had held her hand, that she had trusted him, that in some way he had spoken for Edward, forced her to accept him—but could she? Perfect strangers can let the love through, she thought, and she was crying again.

Was it hours later that she felt her head being gently lifted from a shoulder. “You’d better fasten your belt. We’re landing.”

She opened her eyes. “Where are we?”

“St. Louis. I’m getting off here.”

“Oh dear.” She smiled up at him, a little shyly, wondering how long she had lain like that against his shoulder like a child. “I shall miss you.”

“I have an idea you’ll sleep the rest of the way.”

Such a kind man, she thought, holding his handkerchief crumpled up in her hand. I tried to tell him the truth—what is the truth? The plane gave a big jolt and landed. She knew well that she had not told it, that Edward was more than anything she had said, more disturbing, more … Who was he murdering when he threw himself under the train? But the kind man had not asked her that and, if he had, she could not have answered. She could only have said, “I did not know my brother very well.” Had that old man who called her from Boston known him? What face of a stranger would she have to meet in a few hours, what accusing face? What face which had looked deeply into Edward’s eyes and could tell her the truth?

Part I

part I

I

I