Free The Storm Murders by John Farrow Page B

a firearm east of Aldgate, Watson.” He’d been heading for that part of London, a notoriously violent neighborhood, at the time.
    “Two policemen dead,” he explained. “It’s difficult to sit still for that.”
    “It’s difficult for you to sit still.” She was trying to make nice, but being anxious about the conversation, her husband failed to catch her tone.
    “Sandra, if you don’t want me to do this, say so. I haven’t committed to anything. I told everyone that I need to discuss it with you.”
    “Oh, please, É mile, don’t make it my burden. Do what you wish to do. Or need to do. You might have thought differently, but you were never a great candidate for retirement. I concede, I hoped otherwise. But you’re more interested in horse-trading than in their day-to-day—oh, don’t deny it, you know it’s true. And it’s still true even though you’re less interested in horse-trading than you used to be.”
    He took his time responding and chewed a shrimp. “It’s a matter of looking into the situation to see if I can help. Nobody’s asking me to head up a squad or anything like that.”
    “Do you have to sound so disappointed? I’m not fighting you. Seriously, É mile. I’m really not fighting. Look.” She showed him her hands, upraised and flat on the table. “Open palms. No fists.” Her smile was tentative, and he returned his own, as if agreeing to cool down. Sandra continued, “Tell you what. Since this is apparently a negotiation, at least you seem to be treating it that way, we’ll negotiate. Say what it is you want, and I’ll draw up my own demands.”
    “Demands,” he repeated.
    “If you want everything to go smoothly, expect demands. What’s wrong with that?”
    He was amenable, in theory.
    They ate peaceably awhile and É mile poured wine for both of them again. She said, “Okay. I’ve thought it through.”
    “So soon? You know your demands? Okay. Demand.”
    Placing her elbows on the table, Sandra knitted her fingers. She looked demure, rather pleased with herself. “Demand number one. Two policemen dead must never become three policemen dead, or two policemen and one retired cop who ought to know better.”
    The tension between them of late had dulled his sensitivities. He was finally getting the idea that she was not in a bad mood after all, nor was she mad at him. He cast his eyes over the meal again, the presentation, the candlelight, the fact that she had allowed the Chopin to stay on and filter through from the other room. He was off his game. He should have realized much sooner that things were going his way here.
    “Okay,” he consented, and smiled more openly.
    “Okay is not good enough. Promise.”
    “All right. I promise.”
    “And here’s the real kicker,” Sandra proposed. “You’re nobody’s employee. So you’re no longer bound to professional silence. This time around, keep me apprised of the investigation. As you never have before. If that means that from time to time you’re obliged to tolerate my input, you will do so. Now. Promise me.”
    He had been drafting schemes to possibly place a salve on their marriage. Now he realized that, even though she had initiated the matter of splitting up, she might be doing exactly the same thing. She was saving them.
    É mile told her, “I promise to tolerate you.”
    Which won a smile. “Not exactly how I would put it, but I’ll accept that.” She scooped the last of her main course, mostly sauce, onto her spoon. “Guess what?” Her mood seemed downright flirtatious. “I made dessert.”
    He was even allowed to kick his diet for an evening. É mile Cinq-Mars was counting this as a good day, with all the potential for a good night ahead of him.

 
    EIGHT
    Over the next few days, the region experienced dramatic fluctuations in temperature. É mile Cinq-Mars did little more than putter around the farm or study intermittent reports that Mathers sent over by courier. On a Thursday, the weather offered