“I did. You were correct about Dolores. There was an old resentment, over a man that my uncle warned off most effectively. He paid the fellow to disappear. She is still angry.” He was going to let it rest, but found himself adding. “And Kevin admitted to me that he indeed returned from France earlier, and met with Uncle Frederick. They had a row.”

She didn’t move or speak for a long time.

“Not on the roof,” he felt obligated to add. “And not that night, but the evening before.”

“Well, that’s different, isn’t it?”

It is if he is telling the truth. Damnation. For hours he had not been turning that over in his head. Inevitable that it would all start again, though.

“It is difficult to investigate one’s own family. Perhaps you should wait for an official inquiry. If there isn’t one, you can take it up again if you think you should.”

He watched her profile and the way the low light limned it. The tangle of her hair spread out over the pillow, its silken strands feathering his face. He had not told her, or anyone, that his inquiry was the official one. It had crossed his mind to tell Peel to find someone else to do it, though. Only then he would have no control over it. No ability to turn that blind eye, or avoid ferreting out information on people he did not think required investigation. Like Kevin. Or Minerva.

He had wondered when she would go to this topic. Right now had been a good choice. Their intimacy allowed more honest talk than daylight ever required.

“If it is someone in the family, I would want to know first,” he said.

“So you could tell that person to purchase packet tickets?”

“Something like that.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Have you ever done that?”

“There was one time when I might have. I was too trusting of the person’s innocence, however, until it was too late.”

“I hope you did not blame yourself for trusting, no matter what it meant to the direction of events.”

“It was a mistake that I paid for dearly, that is all.”

She peered at him, as if trying to see his thoughts. When he said no more, she looked away. There was no hurt in her, from what he could tell. She merely accepted that he chose not to share the story with her.

He looked away too, at the ceiling. She turned into his arm and rested her head on his chest.

Did you kill him? Only twice had he answered that question, and even then not told everything. He did not speak of it. He did not explain.