Diamonds of Death. Vivian Conroy

      The girl’s eyes went wide. ‘Alkmene. But… You never replied to any of my letters. I thought…’

      Alkmene hurried to say, ‘I am very sorry about that. I did receive them and thought it was very kind of you to write to me. You must understand I have been quite busy this summer and… Well, I do hope I can make up for my earlier absence now. I am so sorry that your father died.’

      ‘He had it coming,’ George said.

      The quiet conviction in the words was worse than any outburst of anger could have been. This was something George meant from the bottom of his heart.

      ‘Time to go to dinner,’ Albert said hurriedly.

      Alkmene took a step in George’s direction, hoping he’d offer to lead her to the dinner table and she could ask a quick question and find out why he had said such a thing about his father’s death.

      But Albert quickly closed in on her and offered her his arm. She had to take it and walk beside him, while George offered his arm to his sister-in-law and Anne was left to follow the two pairs on her own.

      The table in the dining room was laid out for five. Albert sat at the head of the table with his wife on his left side, Alkmene on his right. George was beside her, knocking into her with his elbow all the time. Anne sat beside Helena, studying Alkmene with an intent but neutral expression. She seemed curious rather than offended by her presence. Alkmene intended to apologize more fully for her lack of response to the letters as soon as she had a moment alone with the girl. She did look sad. A little lost in the room.

      The butler came in to fill their bowls with soup. Alkmene sought for an opening remark that might help to return to George’s statement about his father’s death, but knew there was none. Albert had tried to cover up his brother’s faux pas. By consciously going back to it, Alkmene would only create an awkward moment and not learn anything. It would have to wait until later.

      Anne leaned back, her shoulders straight, her neck stiff. ‘You must forgive us that we never wrote to you when we were still in India. But Father never spoke about you.’

      ‘Why would he have?’ George said, banging his spoon against the bowl as he picked it up with a wild gesture. ‘He never talked about Mother, so why talk about her family?’ He dipped the spoon into the bowl, scratching over the china. The sound was hair-raising, like the scrape of a fingernail over a chalkboard.

      Helena cringed again. Her fingers rearranged the silk napkin in her lap.

      Albert said hurriedly, ‘I think we have to consider that Father was very distraught after Mother’s death. Mentioning her was infinitely painful to him.’

      George laughed softly. ‘Oh, it was.’

      He cast a fiery, significant look around the table that all present seemed to understand, but Alkmene.

      Flushing, Helena focused on her soup. Albert gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, while Anne’s blue eyes remained on Alkmene as if trying to read what she made of all of this.

      ‘I was never really sure…’ Alkmene said, lifting the spoon to her mouth. ‘What my aunt died of. I suppose it was one of those horrible tropical diseases you read about in the papers every now and then?’

      ‘Oh, it was a disease she died of, all right,’ George said.

      Albert sat up straight. ‘There is no need to discuss this, certainly not over dinner.’