The Snares of Death by Kate Charles Page A

anything more than a platonic relationship with her, and it wasn’t worth taking the risk of losing him again. She clenched her hands at her sides. ‘That sounds like a good idea,’ was all she said. ‘Have a nice natter with Daphne. See you tomorrow?’
    â€˜Of course. ’Night.’
    He walked past the scaffolded Albert Memorial and through Kensington Gardens; though it was dark and deserted he knew his way well. He was in good spirits, partly because of Lucy and the felicity of her company, and partly with residual pleasure over an important court case he’d won the day before; he whistled a snatch of a theme from the Tchaikovsky symphony they’d just heard, his breath hanging frostily on the night air. Soon, surely, this cold weather would break and spring would make a belated appearance. The daffodils, spring’s early harbingers, had struggled their way to the surface, and here and there one of them had even put forth a tentative bud, but they wouldn’t be blooming for a while yet in the unsheltered park unless it warmed up. Tonight it even felt cold enough for snow, and the sky had that sort of crystalline feel that often precedes a sudden snowstorm.
    Daphne. Lucy had mentioned again this evening that he’d been taking her for granted lately, and he knew that Lucy was right, but he was sure that Daphne didn’t mind. They’d known each other long enough – over twenty years! – that he felt he didn’t have to make excuses to her. And in spite of his neglect there was a new, or perhaps a renewed, closeness in their relationship since their holiday together last autumn. It had been a lovely holiday, exploring churches in the West Country. The weather had been glorious, the churches superb, and they’d come back from the week with their friendship almost where it had been twenty years earlier, before she’d suddenly cancelled the trip they’d planned to take together. Yes, David reflected, a friendship that lasted through the vicissitudes of over twenty years must have a rather special quality. He’d try to do more to nurture it. Before he got to the flat he stopped at an off-licence and bought a bottle of Daphne’s favourite single-malt whisky; they could have a few drinks tonight, and a long chat.
    When he emerged a few minutes later he discovered that it had indeed begun to snow; tiny ice flakes struck his upturned face like frosty pinpricks. David was exhilarated: what a splendid night it was to sit by the fire with a bottle of whisky.
    Opening the door at his tap, Daphne looked surprised to see him. ‘I brought you a bottle,’ he announced, handing it to her. ‘And it’s snowing!’
    â€˜Why, thank you, David. Do come in.’
    Come in? What else did she think he was going to do? Before he could reflect further on Daphne’s odd turn of phrase, he was through the door and realised that she was not alone; an elderly gentleman was lumbering to his feet and stretching out his hand.
    â€˜David, you remember Cyril Fitzjames?’ Daphne prompted.
    â€˜Yes, of course I do. Wing Commander, how nice to see you again.’ He shook the outstretched hand, dark with liver spots, and smiled into the jowled countenance.
    â€˜David, my dear boy! It’s been a long time! And it’s Cyril to you, not Wing Commander! We’ve never stood on ceremony before, have we?’
    â€˜I’m afraid I haven’t been back to a service at St Anne’s since . . . well, for a long time,’ David admitted. ‘How have you been keeping?’
    â€˜Oh, very well, dear boy. Still churchwarden. Still keeping my eye on things. Still keeping this dear lady and her sacristy budget under control.’ He gave David an exaggerated wink with one drooping eyelid. ‘Of course, things at St Anne’s just haven’t been the same since . . .’ He sighed gustily. ‘Still, never mind.’
    David turned to