Page 17

ENVELOP

STRAIN

“Another thought occurs,” said Havelock.

“The Duke.”

“Yes, exactly. I imagine that he, too, has words.”

“They might be relevant to the case.”

“Indeed. Once we’re done in the village, we should return to Farleigh House and revisit him. His words might be illuminating.”

I nodded, but neither of us made a move. It was pleasant, sitting in the shade.

Four years ago, a case had taken us across the world to Calcutta. There, we had seen many marvels. Most of all, it was the last time I could remember the two of us finding time for ourselves; finding time to feel as we had back when we were young and first in love. There had been great palaces, and private rooms tended to by staff who could be relied upon to never disturb us. The foods were rich, and the case proceeded at such a slow pace that we had long moments to rest and appreciate each other’s company. Our time so far in Farleigh had passed so quickly, but there was something about the hot sun, and the leisurely pace of life in the place, that reminded me of those days. I nudged Havelock’s boot with my own.

“Do you remember Calcutta?”

Havelock smiled a slow smile. “How could I forget?”

“Perhaps, later, we could find some time for ourselves?”

“I think I would like that very much.”

We stayed there a while longer, peaceably sitting together in the shadow of the church. The sun rose higher, and the day grew hotter, and Havelock sighed at last; standing and replacing his hat upon his head. “I have a thirst,” he declared.

“Then perhaps we should find lunch.”

We ambled together back towards the village, and from time to time I felt the back of Havelock’s hand touch the back of mine.

Havelock tipped his hat at everyone we passed in Farleigh, and there were a fair few folk going about their business. We came across Elsebeth, who was scrubbing some apples in a basin, and she directed us further along the main thoroughfare, to where there would be a well we could use. On our way, we encountered a young man with an easel, painting in the sunshine. He was set up in a yard, and was facing northward, so that the sun was hot on his neck and bright across his canvas. There were delicate whirls of white across a blue expanse before him—it looked as if he was painting the sky.

“Marvellous day for it,” said Havelock.

“Oh, yes. Isn’t it just,” said the man, glancing up from his work. “Oh. Are you gentlemen from out of town?”

“We are,” said I.

“I’m Simon,” said the man.

“And we are Havelock and Sebastian. Do you paint often?”

“It is my life’s work,” said Simon, returning to his painting.

“You must have a generous patron indeed.”

“The Duchess supports us very well,” said Simon. “We enjoy the arts here.”

“It seems as if you have plenty of poets, as well,” I said.

Simon blinked, and then he laughed. “Oh, yes. The trees! I see what you mean.” He turned back to us. “May I ask you a question?”

“By all means,” said Havelock.

“I have heard that there are electrical lights in London now. Are they wonderful?”

There were indeed a few areas of London lit up with electricals. “Should they find wider use,” I said, “then I think we folk of the city might end up being quite unable to distinguish night from day.”