“I know he can be difficult,” Violet says quietly.
Lionel sets the glass on the table and rises to his feet. “Listen, Mrs. Grant—”
“Violet,” says some other woman, not her at all.
“Violet.” He lingers over the vowels. His teeth gleam briefly at her. “I’m not going to tell you the story. You’re loyal to him; I can see that. I believe I rather admire that about you. Add it to the list in my head, number thirty-seven: Violet is loyal as the devil. But if I may be unpardonably bold, I suggest you ask yourself just how well Dr. Grant returns your loyalty.”
Violet’s fingers curl around the window frame. In his evening dress, Lionel looks even larger than before: the black tailcoat stretches across his bulky shoulders, his rifle-bearing soldier’s shoulders; the white waistcoat swoops below his thick chest to button trimly at his waist. There are no shades of gray to Lionel. “Walter has his own brand of loyalty.”
“Mostly to himself, I imagine.” Lionel raises his hand and taps the starched white board of his shirtfront. “I have many faults, Violet, God knows. But I know what loyalty is, and what it isn’t.”
“Yes, I suppose you would.”
Lionel’s hand drops away. He reaches inside his waistcoat pocket and draws out a slim gold watch. “I don’t mean to vilify the chap, of course. Many sterling qualities and all that. I was in absolute awe of his intellect, back at the institute.”
“Yes, we all were.”
Lionel looks up. “I say. Would you mind if I took a peek in his study?”
? ? ?
THE STUDY is cool and dark, having been protected from the sunshine all afternoon by a set of thick green damask curtains. Violet flicks on a lamp with nervous fingers, feeling like a child stealing a midnight peek at the Christmas presents.
“Ah, that’s it.” Lionel sticks his hand in his pocket and limps along one wall. “Exactly as I pictured. The antique Persian rug—Tabriz, isn’t it? The bookshelves with their glass fronts, all locked up, of course. Are those his notebooks?”
“Yes. He arranges them by subject and then by date.”
“Does he let you have the keys?”
“Of course he does.” Violet leans against the wall and watches him as he moves about, running his finger along the glass, lifting aside one damask curtain to glance at the street below. “That is, he’s told me where he keeps them, in case he needs something retrieved.”
Lionel laughs. “He was always such a suspicious chap. Rivals lurking around every corner, twirling their mustaches, working to undermine him.”
“Occasionally he’s right.”
“Do you ever read them? His notebooks, I mean.” Lionel passes his thumb along the edge of the green-shaded lamp on the desk and pulls the little chain at the corner. A gentle glow pools atop the immaculate baize surface.
“Not really. I have my own line of inquiry now.”
“Yes, you do. You’re looking for this mysterious neutron.”
“Elusive neutron.” Because of the brandy, she allows herself a sigh.
“For what it’s worth, I think the theory makes a great deal of sense. You can’t have all those extra electrons crammed into the nucleus itself, and nothing else explains the neutral electric charge. Number of protons must equal number of electrons.”
“Walter would say it’s a made-up particle, the neutron. That we’ve made up its existence to fit the facts of the case, the atomic weight being twice the number of protons in the nucleus. A convenience.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not there. Isn’t as if we’ve seen and felt a bloody electron, either, but we know it exists. You see? Aren’t you marvelous. I could talk like this for hours with you. I could sit with you and count damned flashing particles for the rest of my life.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” But she blushes and turns her head, watching him from the peripheral limits of her vision.
Lionel lowers himself into the chair and sends her a devilish look. “Rather handsome, this. All sorts of possibilities come to mind.”
“I suppose you used to play pranks on your headmasters.”
He leans back, passing his face into shadow. “When I could. How are you enjoying Berlin, Violet?”
She shifts her feet. “I don’t pay much attention to Berlin. I’m too busy with my work.”
“What’s this? No play at all?” He shakes his head and tsks. “Doesn’t your husband take you out?”
“He knows I’m not interested in that sort of thing. Parties and endless chatter with people who don’t understand.”