The Corpse of St James's by Jeanne M. Dams Page A

will put a great deal more pressure on Jemima, when the police work out the connection.’
    â€˜Pressure?’ Jonathan sounded very far away.
    â€˜Carstairs is going to want to know who fathered the child.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Jonathan politely.
    I remembered what he said about his blackouts under stress. We were coming up on a tiny village, with an attractive pub. I looked at Alan. He nodded and turned into the car park. ‘Come on, Jonathan,’ I said. ‘Coffee.’
    He came with us like an obedient child. We ordered coffee for all of us. Alan never drinks any alcohol when he’s driving. And though coffee at that hour keeps me from sleeping, and I would have appreciated the soothing influence of a glass of wine, I felt I needed all my wits about me, to support Jonathan in the coming ordeal.
    Jonathan came to himself after half a cup. ‘Sorry. I guess I was a bit . . .’
    â€˜Gobsmacked,’ I supplied. ‘And no wonder.’
    â€˜And you’ve been more than kind. But I really do need to move on. Letty will be wondering about me.’
    â€˜And probably worrying something’s happened to you, too. Her world has suddenly become very insecure. Off we go, then.’
    Alan often has a Thermos in the car. He poured the rest of the coffee into it, begged two paper cups from the publican, and packed us back into the car.
    It took only a few minutes to get to Bramber and find Aunt Letty’s house.
    â€˜We’ll come in if you want,’ I offered, while Alan wrestled the wheelchair out of the boot. ‘Or wait for you and take you home.’
    â€˜I think this is something I have to do alone,’ Jonathan said. ‘And I’ll stay the night. Letty would like me to, I think. You’re right about her feeling insecure just now. But she’s a tough lady. I think she’ll handle this better than I will, if you want the truth.’
    He struggled out of the car, refusing any help. A light went on over the front door of his aunt’s cottage. Jonathan turned to me. ‘Dorothy, I can’t thank you enough.’ To my great surprise, he kissed my cheek. ‘Alan, I think you know what your help means. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’ He unfolded his chair with the expertise born of long practice, and rolled up the flagged path.
    Coffee or not, I slept most of the way home.

SEVEN
    I woke the next morning to a blue sky and birdsong, and a moment of the sheer joy of living on such a glorious spring day, until the memory of the past two days washed over me. Then I would just as soon have turned over and pulled the covers over my head, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Watson was alert to my wakefulness, but he has learned not to be overly animated first thing in the morning. He greets every day with vast enthusiasm, but has realized that his humans don’t always share his mood.
    Alan was already up, so I shrugged into a robe and went down to the kitchen. He had just finished making coffee and silently handed me a cup.
    â€˜Mm,’ I said in thanks, and drank it, hoping it would brighten my outlook.
    Alan handed me the
Telegraph
. I glanced at the headlines, according to which the world was just about to fall apart, again, and then turned inside to the London news.
    â€˜No progress,’ said Alan. ‘No identification of the body yet. They’ve kept your name out of it, anyway.’
    I poured myself another cup of coffee. ‘Thought I was irrelevant. A woman.’
    â€˜Toast?’ Alan asked.
    â€˜No, thanks. Alan, what are we going to do?’
    He sighed. ‘I don’t know.’
    When Alan is dressed, his hair neatly combed, his chin freshly shaved, he looks far younger than he really is. Now, in rumpled pyjamas, his hair sticking up in spikes, his face covered in greying stubble, and with doubt and worry written all over him, he looked every day of his age. I was seized with compassion.
    â€˜I wish