He did not take off his coat. He would never take it off again in this house. He went to the drinks table and poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and waited. He did not try to make sense of the senseless, or to comprehend the incomprehensible. He did not even ask it aloud—Where were you?

There was first the disbelief, the cobwebby explanations that meant to excuse each of them from guilt, no one admitting she was supposed to have been there, supposed to have stayed in, supposed to have had the charge of Sammy. “It was my night off …” “I wasn’t told to watch the baby …” “Mrs. Servino knew I was going to …”

It went on and on, the appropriately horrified responses all tempered by the accusations flying back and forth among these women—nurse, nanny, au pair, mother—none of them claiming one iota of responsibility.

Tony did not even try to follow the drift of the argument. Tony Servino, a master at getting to the bottom of things, would never get to the bottom of this.

Only the old cook, Rebecca, responded in the right way. She rushed to him, weeping his name: “Mister Tony, Mister Tony, Mister—”

He put his arms around her. “It’s all right, Reba; it’s all right.”

And he was gone.

The Mayfair was the first hotel he came to and he pulled up in front and left his car for the valet and went in.

It made no sense to call her because there was no way she could get to him, no way. It was by now midnight.

But he called her anyway.

On the other end of the line she picked up the telephone and heard silence.

She knew him even by his silences. “Tony! Tony, what is it? What’s wrong?”

More silence that she didn’t break into. She waited.

“Sammy.” And then sobbing.

No, she thought. Something’s happened to the baby. No. “Tony, sweetheart. What?”

“He’s—”

Sick? Dying?

“Dead.”

Dear God, no. “Are you at home? Where are you?”

“Not home. The Mayfair.”

“Stay.” She was already out of her nightdress, into her clothes. “I’ll be there.”

“There’s no way from there. There’s no way for you to come tonight.”

“I’ll be there. I’ll come.”

She rang another number. “I’ve got to get to London. Now. Right now.”

“What? That’s impossible, honey. It’s the middle of the night. The ferry’s schedule—”

“I don’t care about the ferry’s schedule. I don’t want the ferry. I need a plane.”

An even more frenzied “What? But one can’t land—”

“Something can. Something. Come on. You know there’s some stretch, of land or water. Get Enrique.”

“He’s a stunt pilot, honey. Why? For God’s sakes!”

“I need a stunt. You can do anything, Daddy, anything. And please don’t waste time asking questions.”

“But—”