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Chapters (63)
  1. 1
  2. 2
  3. 3
  4. 4
  5. 5
  6. 6
  7. 7
  8. 8
  9. 9
  10. 10
  11. 11
  12. 12
  13. 13
  14. 14
  15. 15
  16. 16
  17. 17
  18. 18
  19. 19
  20. 20
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  24. 24
  25. 25
  26. 26
  27. 27
  28. 28
  29. 29
  30. 30
  31. 31
  32. 32
  33. 33
  34. 34
  35. 35
  36. 36
  37. 37
  38. 38
  39. 39
  40. 40
  41. 41
  42. 42
  43. 43
  44. 44
  45. 45
  46. 46
  47. 47
  48. 48
  49. 49
  50. 50
  51. 51
  52. 52
  53. 53
  54. 54
  55. 55
  56. 56
  57. 57
  58. 58
  59. 59
  60. 60
  61. 61
  62. 62
  63. Acknowledgements

At least the art session with Frau Olaru would be amusing. Quirky and unconventional was not usually his thing, but he’d enjoyed his time with her. Besides, he needed a favour: to post a letter for him in the village. He suspected that his first letter, the one he’d sent to Magda, had been intercepted and opened. This new request for Magda’s help was meant for her eyes only, and he didn’t want to take any chances.

36

When he entered the breakfast room, Vidor was pleased to see Libby sitting alone at a table by the window. ‘May I join you?’

She gave him a blank look. ‘If you like.’

It wasn’t until he started in on his plate of eggs and buttered toast that he realised she was particularly distraught. Pale and wan, with tear-stained cheeks. He hoped she wasn’t crying over the Egyptian boy, though he’d long suspected the two of them had a special connection. Early birds, like himself, he’d come in to breakfast on a number of occasions to see them sitting at a corner table, their heads bent in conversation. Was she in love with him? Her eyes were definitely pink and puffy.

He should be upset, like everyone else, he supposed, even though the boy had harboured a malicious streak. After years spent in the thicket of undergraduates at the college, he could spot the bounders a mile away. It was a pity the boy had died, of course. Very sad for the family, indeed. But he was not sorry that Ismail was gone from the clinic. Vidor slept more easily at night now that the room next to him was empty. He hadn’t been able to rest properly knowing the erstwhile Emirati Prince lay inches from his own bed, or had his ear pressed against the wall.

He lifted the pot of coffee. ‘Shall I refresh your cup?’

‘No, thanks.’ She dabbed her nose with a linen napkin.

‘Poor you.’ He dared to pat her arm. He was old enough to be her father, so what harm could it do? He added a spoonful of sugar to his coffee and spread strawberry jam on a bread roll studded with poppy seeds, remembering, too late, he was trying to cut down on sweets.

‘How are you holding up?’ He gave her a sideways glance.

‘How do you mean?’

‘That poor boy’s death.’ He buttered another roll and sipped the coffee. Delicious as usual, though he suspected it lacked the full complement of caffeine. ‘I could tell you had feelings for him.’

‘I did not.’ Her face flushed red. ‘We were friends. Besides, Ismail was gay. Didn’t you know? He was madly in love with a man back home.’