TWENTY-FOUR
The man swept into the library, his sword lowered, but the arm holding it tense. He was still dressed for travel, in heavy tweeds and an ulster, his cloth cap pulled low around his ears, and I wondered whether he had even bothered to announce his presence to his hosts.
‘Uncle Abraham,’ I greeted him, mostly for Geordie’s benefit. ‘I didn’t think you were planning to come, this year. Nobody’s heard from you.’
He replied in Dutch, presumably for the purpose of excluding the third person in the room, though I was not certain Mr Apostol did not speak the language.
‘What’s happening, Greetje? Is this a problem?’
I replied in kind, unable to keep the exasperation from my voice. ‘In England, it’s Meg, please. Would I be alone in an evening gown with a problem?’
He shrugged. ‘You
