When Shadows Fall (46 page)

Later that afternoon, when Allister had gone home and Lydia was busy typing up contract drafts, Duncan knocked on Adam’s door and let himself in.

“Hello, hate to interrupt. Busy?”

Adam had indeed been busy at legitimate company business, trying to reduce the pile of correspondence awaiting his reply. If he was to remain in his position for the foreseeable future, he had to at least make some semblance of effort. “I’m getting there,” he said. “Anything wrong?”

“Nothing of the sort, brother. Tell me, have you any plans for the eighth of this month?”

“No. But that’s my—”

“Your birthday, yes I know. You hardly think I’d forget, do you? Anyway, to strip to the marrow of it, I have a little something arranged that you might do well to join in.” He explained about the restaurant by the sea, the gathering of family.

It was clear from his bumbling that he was embarrassed, and Adam asked him, “Whose idea was this?”

“Mine, damn you. For Mother, really. She does enjoy these things. So you’ll hobble along?”

It was all very bizarre. Marjorie Bowen was all for respectability, but birthday parties in restaurants were not usually her style. “I don’t know, Duncan. I may be busy that night.”

“I thought you said you had no plans.”

“That may change.”

Duncan stared at him a moment, then his face broke into a leer. “Aha! I know your ticket, you game hound. So you’ve got a bit of trollop, have you? Who is she? Bring her along.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Blast you, man, I want to have a look at her. Pretty slice, is she? What does her father do?”

“Cool your heels there,” Adam frowned. “It’s not a good idea. Let’s just leave the birthday bumps for another time.”

“You ingrate!” Duncan glowered. “After all the effort I’ve gone to.”

Adam sighed. “Look, all right, I’ll come. But on my own. Agreed?”

“Good man. I can view the young lady another time.”

Adam hadn’t even thought about celebrating his birthday, and he certainly wasn’t going to introduce Tara into the maelstrom of a Bowen family dinner just yet.

“A restaurant by the sea, very well. I just hope I don’t regret it.”

The Lyndon Court was a newly built restaurant perched on a narrow peninsula with tall, broad windows overlooking Dublin Bay. By the time the Bowens had been driven out to Howth, there was a premature evening descending and the waves that rolled across the harbour were bloated and grey. The wind had grown some teeth; the Union Jack flying from the restaurant roof whipped and snapped, and they were glad to move inside to the shelter of the lobby.

The hostess escorted them into the lounge to wait whilst their table was being set. It was a warm room, ruby rugs on oak floors, white-panelled walls, and globes of light hanging from the ceiling. A few hardy golfers had braved the elements that afternoon but were now ensconced beside the bar, sipping hot punch and reliving the drama of each hole. Presently the hostess called the golfers to their table in the main restaurant. The Bowens, however, were to have the privacy of the Winchester Room to themselves. It was almost dark outside now. The lamps cast a subtle, cosy glow.

Marjorie seated herself in a leather armchair by the fire and ordered Duncan to fetch drinks for everyone. She laid her handbag by her feet and clucked in annoyance. “I really can’t see why we had to come so far. Wasn’t there anything closer to home? The Woodrow might have been nice.”

“I’ve heard good things said of this place, Mother,” Allister explained. “And isn’t it rather more exciting to try somewhere new?” He didn’t add that he’d rather the staff of the Woodrow, who were friends of his, not be witness to tonight’s events.

“Well, one must make do.” Marjorie removed her gloves and glanced at Adam, standing nearby with his elbow leant on the back of a chair. “Is that a new suit, Adam? It has a nice cut. About time for you to have a decent suit, turning twenty-five.”

“I’m turning twenty-six, Mother.”

“Twenty-six, dear me. And still not married.”

Duncan had returned from ordering their drinks, and when he heard the word “married” he gave a crafty chuckle. “Ho, ho, give him a chance, Mother. He’s holding his cards fairly tight to his chest, but I’ll wager the boy will have news soon.”

“Oh?” Marjorie enquired.

“Not really.” Adam shook his head. “Say, when will that table be ready? I’m hungry.”

“Yes, they are running a little late,” Marjorie sniffed.

A few minutes later they were shown in. A long mahogany table had been set with white linen, silver cutlery, and brass candelabra. The cream velvet curtains were drawn with stays, the sea beyond the windows in darkness.

“Is this chair teak?” Marjorie asked of the hostess. “I can’t abide teak. Far too hard.”

The young girl glanced at the chair, uncertain. “I can find out for you, ma’am.”

“Never mind, dear. Just fetch me a soft cushion, if you please.” Marjorie shifted her bottom with a wince of discomfort.

“Oh, now,” Quentin admonished her. “The chairs aren’t so bad, are they?”

“I don’t know about that.” Duncan lowered his bulk between the armrests with evident difficulty. “Not quite built for the larger fellow, eh, Quentin? Allister, pass over that basket of bread, I’m starving.”

Sarah laid a hand on his arm. “Darling, not everybody is seated yet. Might you not wait?”

As befitting the guest of honour, Adam sat at Marjorie’s right side. He flashed his humblest smile and said, “Thanks for coming along tonight, all of you. I hadn’t expected it, to say the least. Still, cracking excuse for a drink or two.”

“Hear, hear!” Duncan enthused. His wife touched his arm again.

Allister said nothing.

Marjorie gestured to where the waiter stood patiently by the door. He pounced to duty.

“Thank you, madam. And perhaps you might permit me to recommend some dishes for this evening’s meal?” While it was the norm for a waiter to address the patriarch of the group, waiters always went to Marjorie first. It was as though they could sense, without instruction, where the power of the table lay.

He wrote down their starters and main course. Marjorie selected a bottle of Bordeaux s
é
millon to complement her turbot and a red wine for those on the beef and pork. Adam ordered canapés for starters. Duncan ordered crab legs, a desperate choice for a man who was less than tidy when he ate. The food wasn’t long in arriving, and they ate in silence for a while as they waited for the official signal from Marjorie that they may recommence conversation.

She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin, as if dusting an oil painting, and leaned her eyes towards Adam.

“Twenty-six years.” Her gaze was distant. “I remember that time, of course. It was a long labour, God forgive you. Not that I could relax after the birth either, for I was quite taken up with a mother’s duty, directing the nursemaid on your feeds and everything else.” She tutted. “Ah, indeed. An endless, thankless task, raising a newborn. It’s all before you, Sarah.”

Duncan’s wife touched her rounded belly, looking worried.

“Sounds like I was quite the burden on you, Mother,” Adam said.

“Well, you were a pretty baby. Quite beautiful, in fact.”

Allister coughed in irritation. “Anyone else find these scallops a little queer? Mine are—”

“And nobody was more traumatised than me,” Duncan quipped. “Eh, Mother? Had to share everything with a new pretender to the throne. My football, my cowboy gun, my tennis racquet. And worst of all, my food.”

Quentin winked across at Adam. “Feeling any older now? Four more years and you’ll be thirty, on the brink of the grave.”

Adam chuckled. They were all looking at him and smiling, though Allister had begun clearing his throat again. “You know,” he said, “I think twenty-six will be a better year. I haven’t always been perfect, but I’ve always tried to do what I think is right. Hopefully you all know that.”

Allister coughed again, louder this time. Adam wondered why the gobshite wouldn’t take some medicine for that throat.

Marjorie touched his hand, and he almost pulled away in surprise, but the buried love was strong in that touch. She withdrew after just a moment, and her countenance resumed its starched protocol. “Indeed, Adam. We’d all be delighted to see you finally grow up.”

“Yes, Mother,” he agreed.

“But as I said earlier, rather unusual that you’re not married yet. Yet did Duncan mention something we should know about?”

“No.”

“Oh, he’s seeing a girl,” Duncan announced triumphantly. “Told me so himself. I haven’t met the lass, but she sounds a peach.”

“A peach?” Sarah cringed. “Duncan, really.”

“Well, do tell, Adam.” Marjorie lifted her chin like a courtroom barrister. “Where is this young lady from? Does she have a name? And why isn’t she here tonight?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Mother. She’s not here tonight, no. I think she has a cold.”

“Hmm.” Marjorie stiffened her shoulders, unimpressed. “I raised three sons and buried a husband without so much as a headache. Still. Young women are different nowadays.”

They returned to their food.

Before the main course was delivered, Duncan slid out for a smoke. Allister was constantly turning in his chair, watching the door to the lobby.

“Is there something wrong, Allister?” Marjorie asked in annoyance. “You’ve been fidgeting like a ferret all night.”

“No, Mother.”

“You’re another one,” she mourned. “Didn’t you have even one companion you might have brought along tonight?”

“No, Mother, I—”

“Really, Allister. At your age, you should have them flocking round you. People will start to wonder.”

He blushed. “No, Mother. I mean, yes. But I have lots of, er, girls. Friends. Girlfriends.”

“Look at Duncan, happily married, with a baby on its way. But you and Adam . . . ” She shook her head at the tragedy of it.

Allister’s colour heightened. “Mother, you must not compare me with Adam. We are not alike.”

“What’s this?” Adam asked. “Allie, old chum, you should be flattered at the comparison.”

Allister muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

“You’ll see.” Allister stared at him. And finally he smiled. Adam was about to bite back, but Marjorie had already moved things along with the arrival of the meat and fish. She asked for some caper sauce and a new fork. When Duncan returned, stinking of cigar smoke, he set upon his beef dish as though there was a blood feud between them. After a mouthful, he suddenly stood up again. “Damn bladder. Should have gone earlier. Won’t be a minute.” He shuffled back out to the lobby.

Allister gazed down at his plate of poached salmon but made no attempt to touch it.

“Where is that girl with my fork?” Marjorie exclaimed. “Really, how can I eat when—”

She didn’t get the chance to expand, for just then their peace was interrupted by an indignant roar. They froze, cutlery in hand. The door was open, and Duncan could be seen remonstrating furiously with some unseen person.

Sarah sighed and clasped her head. “Oh dear, every time. He’d start an argument with his own reflection.”

Adam couldn’t see what the bother was. He saw only Duncan’s tubby backside as he pranced and bellowed like a bull elephant. There were more voices beyond. Loud.

“What’s the fuss there, Allister?” he asked his brother, confused. “Who’s he managed to offend now?”

Allister was smiling again. He shrugged at Adam. “Why don’t you go see for yourself?”

But then Duncan stormed back inside and slammed the door behind him.

“Duncan,” Marjorie demanded. “What on earth is the row?”

“Well, I never,” he panted. “Of all the—” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “What a confounded disgrace. Mother, Sarah, I do apologise, but it seems the police are outside.”

“The police?” Quentin shrilled. “What for?”

Marjorie didn’t so much as blink. “What do the police want, Duncan?”

Duncan swallowed and looked at Adam. “Er, you’d better prepare yourself, old boy. There’s obviously been some ghastly mistake, but they have your name on their lips.”

At the word
police
, Adam sat rigid-still in his chair. His expression didn’t stir but his pulse began to surge. He glanced behind him. To the other exits. To the window.

“I see,” Marjorie said, making a yawning motion. “There must indeed be a mistake. How tiresome. Duncan, be a dear and resolve the matter so that we might carry on with dinner.”

“But, but—”

The door was pushed open. A man dressed in a black trench coat and a trilby hat strode towards their table. The restaurant manager scampered after him, a five-foot, pencil-thin man, practically prostrating himself before Marjorie in apology. The taller man bowed to Marjorie and Sarah and then said in a polished English accent, “Deeply sorry for the intrusion, ladies. But there is a small problem, I’m afraid.”

The manager clasped his arm frantically. “Really, Detective, I must protest. My guests—”

“You!” Duncan thrust a finger at the terrified manager. “I’ll have your job for this, you—”

The detective raised a hand to still the clamour. “He has nothing to do with this, Mr. Bowen. And before any more protestations begin, I do know and appreciate who you are. But I’m here on police business, and that is to arrest your brother.” He turned his eyes down the table. “Adam Bowen. Are you he, sir?”