talked to them at length,” Detective Miles volunteered.
I was fully aware of this, but I made no further comment as I walked the two policemen to the door of the library. “When will you have the results of the autopsy?” I inquired quietly.
“Not for a while,” Detective Kennelly replied, pausing on the threshold, turning to look at me. “Mr. Locke’s body hasn’t been moved from the farm yet. But later, probably tomorrow, it will go to the Chief Medical Examiner’s Office in Farmington. The autopsy will be performed immediately, however, the final results are not necessarily quick to come in.” He gave me a faint smile that seemed somehow apologetic.
“We’ll be in touch, Mrs. Trent,” Detective Miles added.
Sitting down at my antique French country desk, I picked up my fountain pen but merely stared blankly at the pages spread out in front of me. Earlier, I had attempted to edit the piece I had finished on Sunday night, but without much success. The news of Sebastian’s death this morning and the arrival of the police ten minutes ago had broken my concentration. I was finding it virtually impossible to get back to work. Not surprising, I suppose, under these terrible circumstances.
My thoughts were entirely focused on Sebastian; I had thought of little else but him since Jack phoned me with the shocking news of his death.
Gazing blindly into the empty room, a myriad of thoughts jostling for prominence in my mind, I put the pen down and leaned back in my chair.
Sebastian had been a part of my life for as long as I could remember, and perhaps more than anyone he had been the greatest influence on me. Even though we had had our noisy quarrels, heated differences of opinion, and stormy, emotional episodes that left both of us very shaken and upset, we had always managed to patch things up, to stick together, to remain close, no matter what. Knowing him all my life though I had, it was after our divorce that we had come to understand each other; and it was only then that our relationship acquired a certain degree of peace and serenity.
Our marriage had been tempestuous at times and short-lived; through the passing of time I had come to realize why it had been so volatile, and brief. Put simply, the forty-two-year-old experienced man of the world had not known how to cope with the twenty-two-year-old child who was his new bride. Me.
An image of Sebastian on our wedding day flashed before me, and once again my throat closed with a sudden rush of emotion. Tears were incipient, pricked behind my lids; I blinked them away. On and off, for the last few hours, I had been shedding tears…tears for Sebastian, dead at fifty-six, and with so much more of life to live…tears for myself…tears for Jack and Luciana…tears for the world.
Difficult, haunted, and troubled man though he had been, he had nevertheless been a great man. A good man. No matter what he was in his personal life, his shoulders had been strong enough to carry so many of the world’s burdens, and his heart had been filled with compassion for those who were suffering and in need.
A French journalist had once written about him that he was a beacon light in these darkly turbulent and troubled times we lived in. Certainly I deemed this to be the truth. The world would be a lesser place now that he was no longer in it.
Oh Sebastian, you were too young to die, I thought, and I put my head down and closed my eyes, reliving Jack’s phone call of this morning. I had been checking the facts in my story when Belinda had told me that Jack Locke was on the line…
“Jack! Hello!” I exclaimed. “How are you? And more importantly, where are you?”
“Here. In Connecticut. At the farm, Vivienne.”
“That’s great. When did you get in from France?”
“Two days ago, but Vivienne, I—”
“Come on over for supper tonight! I’ve just finished this long piece for the London Sunday Times Magazine, and it’ll do me good to cook, to relax with y—”
Cutting me off in a peremptory way, he said swiftly, “Vivienne, there’s something I must tell you.”
I detected an odd note in his voice, and it made the hackles rise on the back of my neck. Stiffening, I clutched the phone tighter in my hand. “What is it? What’s wrong, Jack?”
“It’s Sebastian…Vivienne…I’m not sure how to tell you this, how to break it gently, so I’m gonna come right out with it. He’s dead. Sebastian’s dead.”
“Oh my God! No! It can’t be! What happened? When did he die?” I demanded shrilly, and then I heard myself wailing, “It can’t be true. He can’t be dead. No, not Sebastian.” My stomach lurched, and then as agitation fully took hold of me, my heart began to pound against my rib cage.
“It is true,” Jack insisted. “I got a call this morning. Around nine-thirty. From Harry Blakely. The tree man. The aborist who looks after the trees at the farm. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Harry called me to tell me he’d found Sebastian’s body out back. Near the lake. Harry had gone to the farm as he usually does Mondays. He was heading down to cut off the tops of some dead willows. He stumbled over the body. Sebastian was sprawled face down, near those rocks at the far end of the lake. He had a gash on his forehead. Harry said he looked as if he’d been outside all night. Maybe longer. Once he’d established that Sebastian was dead, Harry went up to the house to call the State Police in North Canaan. He told them about finding the body. They instructed him not to move it. Not to touch a single thing. Then he called me at the house in Manhattan. I grabbed Luciana, who’s in from London. We took Sebastian’s helicopter out here. Harry was also disturbed about the mess in Sebastian’s library. The room was in total disarray. A lamp was overturned. A chair was on its side. Papers were strewn everywhere. And the French doors were ajar. The glass was broken in one of the panes. Harry thought it looked as if it could have been smashed on purpose. By an intruder.”
“Are you saying that Sebastian may have been killed?”
“It’s possible. Very possible,” Jack said. “The circumstances are somewhat suspicious, wouldn’t you say?”
“From what you’re telling me, it does look strange, yes. On the other hand, Sebastian might have had some sort of attack, a stroke perhaps. He could have staggered around the room, then gone outside to get air…” My voice petered out. It was foolish to speculate. But a second later I did just that again.
“Do you think he fell and hit his head, Jack? Or are you suggesting he was chased out of the house, and then struck by someone? The intruder? If there was one.”
“I don’t know, Vivienne. I wonder if we’ll ever know.”
“Oh, Jack, this is just horrendous! I can’t believe he’s dead. I just can’t.” I found myself weeping once more.
“Don’t cry. Please don’t. It won’t bring him back.”
“I know it won’t but I can’t help it. I’ve loved him for as long as I can remember, since I was a child. And I still cared deeply for him, despite the divorce.”
“I know,” he muttered.
There was a silence between us.
“How’s
