The Iron Cobweb

  Elizabeth said in a whisper, “Jagoe had it with him?”

  “Yes . . . You’d have thought,” said Oliver, “that I was trying to separate him from his right leg. He called for the law, but the law was conveniently on the telephone . . . Lucy, I take it? Or some homework of his own?”

  “Lucy. But I don’t see how he—”

  “Jagoe used to be hotel detective at the Savoia. My guess is that he got thrown out because of a tendency to blackmail, but he still had an unofficial foot in the door. I haunted the place, asking questions, but they’re all boys together at the Savoia.”

  They had had this to show Oliver, and she herself had shown him nothing but the unnatural moods of terror; she had flinched from the touch of his hands. She must have murmured something, because Oliver was looking at her and saying briefly, “The whole rotten business was like a magician’s trick—hellishly convincing even when you know the rabbit’s built-in. The trouble was,” he glanced away, “that you didn’t seem to be in shape to have a thing like this thrown at you. It wasn’t until after the fire in the studio that I even began to suspect—”

  “Constance. I know.” Later, tomorrow, she would tell him about the checks, and her own silencing doubts. She took the card from Oliver’s fingers and dropped it onto the logs without speaking; it made a satisfying swallow of gold for the dying fire.

  He still hadn’t moved, or touched her, Elizabeth was queerly, painfully conscious of every breath he drew, of the faint brush of his sleeve against her arm, the utter stillness of them both. Then Oliver moved abruptly, turning so that he faced her. He said as though it were being dragged from him, “What about Steven Brent?”

  Elizabeth stared. “Well—what about him?”

  “I had an idea that you . . . that you and he—”

  A full moment went by, in which Lucy, warped, triumphant, seemed to hover in the air between them. Then Elizabeth was safely in his arms, not knowing whether he had reached out for her or whether she had taken a single blind step; she was saying unsteadily against his cheek, “Oh, my sweet, how well she knew us both. . . .”

  Footsteps echoed purposefully in the kitchen, a door opened. Oliver called, “Coming,” in a voice recklessly full of ingratitude, and gathered Elizabeth closer and bent his head.