The next morning, it rained.
Curtis sat at the breakfast table with his fellow guests. Da Silva, who seemed to be an unrepentantly late riser, was not among them. He was glad of that. He needed to speak to him, of course. They needed to work out how to bring their information to whoever might listen and act, and Curtis knew he should get things back on an even keel after last night’s drama, but he wasn’t sorry to put it off a little longer. Coming in a chap’s mouth made it rather awkward to look him in the eye.
It was bad enough making polite conversation with the Armstrongs.
The servants would have told their masters about last night, he was sure. One or the other Armstrong, maybe all three, would know what he’d done with da Silva. That was not a comfortable thought. Of course, the Armstrongs would not let on that they knew—if they said anything, it would be as the opening to extortion, and Curtis had resolved to deal with that promptly and forcefully. It would be something of a relief. But if the Armstrongs were keeping up the facade of normality, even the most compliant host might object to his guests setting off alarms with indecent, illegal behaviour in the library, and if Sir Hubert decided to have a quiet word of rebuke, Curtis would have to endure it, apologise even.
He had spared da Silva a few unkind thoughts as he came down to breakfast, braced for humiliation, but so far it appeared that the country-house rules of pretended ignorance applied. Sir Hubert was genial, Lady Armstrong wonderfully lively, rippling with laughter as she made mock lamentations about the rain. Lambdon and James Armstrong spoke like decent English fellows.
They were all so pleasant that last night took on even more of a dreamlike quality as he ate. He couldn’t reconcile these companionable, civilised people with the foul cabinet and its sheaves of betrayal, treachery and death. He could hardly believe anything of the events of last night, except that his black leather glove was still shiny where he had gripped da Silva’s brilliantined hair.
Da Silva drifted in halfway through the meal. His deep-set eyes were ringed with dark circles of sleeplessness, but he was impeccably dressed, hair sleeked back. Curtis wished he wouldn’t wear the stuff. He had a momentary mental image of da Silva’s tumbled locks last night, and blinked it away.
He gave an awkward nod of greeting and received a blank look.
“I was just saying to everyone, Mr. da Silva,” said Lady Armstrong in her silvery tones, “if it clears up this afternoon, I propose a walk to the limestone caves. They’re just a couple of miles away and so dramatic, I feel sure you’d be inspired.”
“I must decline. I abominate the subterranean, and my editorial labours call me. Do enjoy your explorations.” Da Silva helped himself to a kipper, apparently unaware that one should not contradict a lady, let alone one’s hostess. Curtis had to give him credit for sheer effrontery. The other men exchanged “what can you expect?” glances.
“In the meantime, do please resort to the games room,” Lady Armstrong went on. “Cards, billiards, and perhaps, if the weather sets in badly, we could plan a round of charades?”
“Oh, wonderful,” said Miss Carruth with enthusiasm. “I adore charades.”
Curtis couldn’t help glancing at da Silva. He was eating the smoked fish with catlike delicacy, a man with nothing more in his mind than avoiding pin bones.
Charades, indeed.
After breakfast Curtis, Grayling and Holt repaired to the billiard room, somehow bringing da Silva in their wake. James Armstrong and Lambdon had gone off with Miss Carruth and Mrs. Grayling, both ladies giggling with flirtatious amusement. Lady Armstrong had watched them with a smile that had seemed to Curtis just a little fixed.
“Do you play, da Silva?” Holt asked sceptically.
Da Silva didn’t react to the tone. “Less than I used to. I remember the principles.”
“Who’s playing who?” asked Holt.
“I’ll give you a game,” said Grayling with obvious haste to avoid being partnered with the wrong man. Da Silva’s mouth curled.
Curtis said, “Then it’s you and I, da Silva.”
“Can you play with that?” Da Silva nodded at his hand as Curtis chalked his cue.
“I’ve had plenty of practice. Don’t worry, you won’t be at an advantage.” He made a good break and straightened, pleased.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” da Silva said, and proceeded to pot the next two balls.