A Banquet of Consequences by Elizabeth George Page A

can’t say that someone must get over a death—not a death like Will’s—the way you’d recover from the death of a friend or even a spouse. This was his brother.” Her chin began to dimple at that word
brother
, and India knew how difficult it was for Caroline to speak of the suicide of her younger son. But she forged on although tears began to make crooked pathways down her cheeks. “There’s not going to be another brother for him. He can’t pick up the pieces and just soldier on. You have no siblings, so you probably can’t understand how close they were, how Charlie stood in place of Will’s father when he had no actual
interested
father and Charlie himself only ten years old and a thousand times he was there for Will when Will needed someone to be his mate, his protector, his . . . his everything when their own father wouldn’t . . . India, I didn’t mean to coddle either one of the boys, Will
or
Charlie, but when a child is troubled, then a parent has to do something or face the worst. And now it’s happened. And so to have him gone now, his only brother ripped out of his life, and on top of it, to lose you. You can’t do this. You must see where it could lead and how afraid I am that—”
    India went to her mother-in-law, who held her hands up in apleading gesture. She quite understood Caroline’s deep fear: that Charlie would also kill himself. She feared this as well. Her fear was what had kept her in place for more than two years till something
had
to happen to force Charlie to take action, and removing herself as his crutch and emotional whipping boy had been the only route she could take.
    “He needs to get help, Mum,” India said. “He knows that, but he won’t do it. He says I’m his help—”
    “You
are.
”
    “—but you and I know that isn’t the truth. He’s lost most of his clients. He’s stopped leaving the flat. There’re days when he doesn’t even dress. He just lies on the sofa and stares at the ceiling. And when I ask him or try to talk to him or—”
    “I know, I know.” Caroline wept, abject in her grief. “You’ve a right to a life that’s not like this one. But can you not see . . . ?” She had shredded her tissue, so she got another and pressed it to her wet cheeks. This action seemed to calm her because when she next spoke, her voice was altered, no longer pleading but reasoned and gentle as well. “Can you at least not file for divorce, India?”
    “I have no plans to do that.”
    “Oh thank God. Because, you see, he’s in pieces now that you’ve begun to date, and to go from that to receiving papers telling him you’re . . .”
    But India didn’t attend to the rest because, in that moment, she understood. She’d told not a soul she was dating. She’d not yet said a word even to her own mother. So if Caroline Goldacre knew that she was seeing someone, there was only one way she could have found out.
    Charlie had told her. He’d rung her and told her and, as she’d done for years, Caroline had rushed in to do the work meant for one of her boys.
    But that wasn’t the worst of it, actually. For India also had never told Charlie that she was seeing someone. So if he knew, he’d been following her.
    SPITALFIELDS
    LONDON
    The only real clues that Charlie Goldacre had that he hadn’t been out of the flat in two weeks were the rubbish bags and the fridge. The first were beginning to stack up in the entry like spine-slumped debutantes hoping in vain for a dance partner. The second was bare of everything but condiments, some mouldy cheese, three eggs, and a carton of milk whose odour suggested the way of wisdom would have been to pour its contents straight down the drain. Other than that, there was—at least to his eyes—nothing to suggest he’d been holed up inside what had once been his home with his wife since seeing her out with another man.
    Prior to that, he’d had good days and bad days. While it was true that most of them had been