"Yes: I told him. Not the name of the man, but he guessed, I
think--I know the photograph was in the safe. He went to Ronnie.
Perhaps to kill him. I imagine Ronnie lied for his life. The police
were looking for Ambrose. The--killing of Moropulos was discovered
by a man who heard the shot and the car had just passed through
Woking after the police had been warned. A detective saw the car
outside Ronnie's flat and followed it. I don't know all the details.
Father has seen the inspector in charge of the case. Do you like
sugar in your tea?"
"Two large pieces," said Christina, "I am rather a baby in my love of
sugar. Do you love Ronnie very much, Beryl--you don't mind?"
"No--please. Love him? I suppose so: in a way. I despise him, I
think he is loathsome, but there are times when I have a--wistful
feeling. It may be sheer ungovernable--you know. Yet--I would make
no sacrifice for Ronnie. I feel that. I have made no sacrifice.
Women are hypocrites when they talk of 'giving': they make a
martyrdom of their indulgence. Some women. And it pleases them to
accept the masculine view of their irresponsibility. They love
sympathy. For Ambrose I would sacrifice--everything. It is cheap to
say that I would give my life. I have given more than my life. So
have you."
Christina was silent.
"I have faced--everything," Beryl went on. She was sitting on a
cushion between Christina and the fire, her tea cup in her hands.
"You have also--haven't you, Christina?"
"About Ambrose? Yes. He has passed. The law will kill him. He
expects that. I think he would be uncomfortable if he was spared.
He told me once, that all the way out to New Caledonia, he grieved
about the people who had been guillotined for the same offense as he
had committed. The unfairness of it! He never posed. Can you
imagine him posing? I've seen him blush when I joked about that
funny little trick of his; have you noticed it? Rubbing his chin
with the back of his hand?"
Beryl nodded.
"He said he had tried to get out of the habit," Christina continued.
"No, Ambrose couldn't pretend, or do a mean thing; or lie. I'm
getting sentimental, my dear. Ambrose was distressed by
sentimentality. Mother kissed his hand the day I stood for the first
time. He was so bewildered!"
They laughed together.
"Are you marrying Steppe?" asked Christina. She felt no call to
excuse the intimacy of the question.
"I suppose so. There are reasons. At present he is rather
impersonal. As impersonal as a marriage certificate or a church. I
have no imagination perhaps. I shall not tell him. You don't think
I should--about Ronnie, I mean?"
Christina shook her red head. "No. As I see it, no. If you must
marry him, you are doing enough without handing him another kind of
whip to flog you with."
"I told Ambrose: that was enough," said Beryl. "My conscience was
for him. Steppe wants no more than he gives."
The clock chimed five.
Ambrose at that moment was passing through the black gates of
Wechester County Prison and Ronald Morelle was taking tea with Madame
Ritti.