Lost Among the Living(41)

After several days, I could touch the thought of Dottie’s conversation tentatively, like a bruise, run my tongue over the thought like a healing tooth. And then I began to grow angry.

“Mrs. Manders.” This was one of Dottie’s art clients, sitting on the sofa in the parlor, watching me pour tea. I was so lost in my thoughts, so unused to being acknowledged during these meetings, that for a moment I forgot my own name.

“Yes, sir,” I managed.

“You are married to Mrs. Forsyth’s nephew, I believe?”

I paused, the teapot poised just at the end of a pour, and glanced at Dottie. I had not been given instructions should a client ask me questions. Dottie was frowning but silent.

I turned back to the man. He was sixtyish, distinguished, with upright posture and thick, silver hair. A prominent, well-shaped nose, high in the bridge, made him look especially aristocratic. I searched my memory for his name.

“I was married to him, sir.” I choked the words out—had he known I was thinking about Alex? “He died in the war.”

“A great shame,” the man said. His gaze traveled down my arm to my hands, where they held the teacup and pot, and I wondered if he was looking at my wedding ring, the narrow band of gold Alex had given me one golden day in Crete. “An officer, I presume?”

I gritted my teeth. What did Alex’s status matter now that he was dead? “Yes, sir. An officer in the RAF. His plane went down in 1918.”

“Indeed.” He took his teacup from my hand and sat back on the sofa, regarding me. My spinning brain did its job and supplied his name: Mabry. Colonel Mabry, though he did not wear a uniform. “I knew a great many RAF men. They were brave lads.”

I set the teapot down, trying not to bang it. “Yes, sir.”

“Colonel,” Dottie broke in, gesturing impatiently at me for her own teacup, “perhaps you’d like to come to the gallery and see some of the works you’ve expressed an interest in.”

Colonel Mabry turned to look at her, and for a second I thought I saw faint surprise in his eyes, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “That does sound enjoyable,” he agreed, “but there is lots of time.”

Dottie raised her thin eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am staying in the area,” Mabry said. “I have put up in the small hotel in the village. I’m mixing business with pleasure on this particular trip. I spent some time working in the neighboring government installation some years ago, and I am here again at their request, assisting them with a small matter.”

“I see,” Dottie said. “How fortunate.”

“The Ministry of Fisheries?” I asked. “That is a strange assignment for an army colonel.”

The air in the room grew as brittle and cold as the ice over a puddle. I did not look at Dottie, but I felt the blast of her disapproval, and I dropped my gaze to the lap of my skirt as I lowered myself to the sofa.

“It was a personal matter,” the colonel said. His voice was low and cautious, but not angry. “Not official business, I’m afraid. It was some years before the war.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I apologize.”

“It’s quite all right. I am flattered you take a personal interest in me, Mrs. Manders.”

I looked up at him. He was not flirting with me; his expression gave nothing away. I had an inkling that I was dealing with a man whose words carried a great deal of obscure meaning. “Colonel,” I said, ignoring the poisonous look that was no doubt being sent my way from Dottie’s direction, “you say you knew many RAF men.”

“I did,” Colonel Mabry agreed. “I spent most of the war in France and Belgium.”

“Did you know my husband?” I asked, keeping my voice calm. “When you served? Alex Manders?”

Mabry regarded me calmly, but a quick spark of interest crossed his gaze, a light that I could not quite read. “It is possible, Mrs. Manders, that I came across him at some time or another. I will give it some thought. My aging brain does not recall names as quickly as it used to.”

Of course. I had hoped for honesty, but he was humoring me, as would be expected when an army colonel spoke to a civilian woman. The realization did nothing to bank my anger.

“I would appreciate it if you could recall any memories of him.” I tried to sound sweet, though I was not certain I succeeded. “I cherish any memories of him I can find, as you can imagine.”

“As any good lady would,” he agreed. “Where are your people from, Mrs. Manders?”

“London,” I replied, lying blithely, as if I had people. “Though my mother now lives in Hertford. She is retired.”

“Well earned and well deserved, I’m sure,” Mabry said, and suddenly I knew that he knew I was lying. A liar knows a liar, my mother had always said. My mad mother, who had retired to an asylum in Hertford, where she dug her nails into her own neck. “I am certain you do both her and your husband credit. The brave widows of the war are a part of what makes England a great nation.”

“Oh, but I am not necessarily a widow.” I was not sure what had come over me, but the words would not stop. “You must not count me in that number. My husband disappeared when his plane went down, you see, and his body was never found.”

“Manders,” Dottie interjected, her voice choked, “Colonel Mabry is not interested in your anecdotes.”