slightly more diplomatic language, Kate said in a voice of dead calm, "Mum. I don't expect you to apologize because I never got what I wanted under the Christmas tree. We never had a Christmas tree. And if your memory's so sharp, answer me this: when is Ritchie's birthday?"
Louise blinked. "What?"
"Ritchie. My brother. Your son." Kate folded her arms across her chest. "He's in his room, playing with his Legos, thank God. Do you know he's an artist? He does things with Legos that are good enough for galleries, Mum. One of his pieces will be shown at a Legoland fair next month, which you'd know, if you ever bothered to call. You've been in this house for two hours and you haven't even asked about him. When is Ritchie's birthday, Mum?"
"This isn't about Ritchie, it's about Henry," Maura sniffed. Wiping her eyes, she tried to get down on one knee in front of her son. Perhaps because of the fraught atmosphere, perhaps because of the whiskey, she failed in that attempt, overbalancing and falling on the carpet.
Henry backed away, tears spilling down his cheeks. As Tony helped her up, she whined, "Henry! Baby! You still love me, don't you? You understand I had to go in hospital, I had to get well…."
"Tell me what day Ritchie was born," Kate continued, still locked on Louise. "Amaze us. Never mind the year, the day and month is good enough."
"Katie." Louise rose with all the dignity available to an inebriated senior citizen in designer trackies. "Never mind that art nonsense, Ritchie's a lost cause. Not because of me, because of you. You stole him from me. Bribed him and lied to him and made him forget me. But you won't do that with Henry, because you're giving Maura custody."
"I don't want—" Henry tried to interject.
"I don't take orders from you," Kate shouted at Louise.
"Henry's my son," Maura put in.
"I'm right here!" Henry cried. "Doesn't anyone care what I want?" Whirling, he tried to dart out of the parlor, but Tony blocked his escape.
"You have to stand your ground," he whispered in the boy's ear. "Run now, and you'll never stop."
Forcibly turning Henry to face Kate, Maura, and Louise, Tony said, "Well, ladies? It's a fair question. Do any of you care what he wants?"
Kate made a shocked sound. "How can you ask me that?"
"I would die for Henry!" Maura surged forth as if to embrace the boy.
"No!" Throwing himself against Tony, Henry sobbed noisily into his coat. Unsure how to respond, either to the gale of emotion or the death grip around his middle—it was his first time being seized by a weeping child—he decided to just carry on.
"I await your answer," he told Louise. "Do you care what he wants?"
"Kiddies don't know what they want. Or need. That's why God made adults, innit?"
"Terribly sorry, milord," Harvey announced jubilantly from the door. His uniform had been replaced, his comb-over back where it belonged. "Scotland Yard is on the line. They've rung your mobile several times, sir. Must be a satellite issue."
Tony, infamous among his younger colleagues for switching off his mobile when it suited him, nodded as if carrier failure was obviously at fault. "Who called?"
"Dispatch, milord. There's been a homicide. SCO19 has been summoned. The scene may still be hot." Harvey kept his face blank, as if he took no pleasure in casual use of Met lingo, but satisfaction radiated off him in waves. Tony knew how much his manservant enjoyed coming to the rescue.
"What's a hot scene?" Henry asked.
"One where the bloke what did it might still be loitering about," Louise said wisely. "Bloody hell, Katie, don't you let the little bugger watch Crimewatch ?"
"What's the address?" Tony asked Harvey.
His manservant indulged in an infinitesimal pause for effect. "Twenty-four Euston Place, milord."
Kate caught her breath. "But that's.…"
"In this very neighborhood," Tony agreed. "Just down the street. Therefore, though it pains me to do so" —he smiled—"I fear I must ask our guests to leave."
"Right. We'll
Louise blinked. "What?"
"Ritchie. My brother. Your son." Kate folded her arms across her chest. "He's in his room, playing with his Legos, thank God. Do you know he's an artist? He does things with Legos that are good enough for galleries, Mum. One of his pieces will be shown at a Legoland fair next month, which you'd know, if you ever bothered to call. You've been in this house for two hours and you haven't even asked about him. When is Ritchie's birthday, Mum?"
"This isn't about Ritchie, it's about Henry," Maura sniffed. Wiping her eyes, she tried to get down on one knee in front of her son. Perhaps because of the fraught atmosphere, perhaps because of the whiskey, she failed in that attempt, overbalancing and falling on the carpet.
Henry backed away, tears spilling down his cheeks. As Tony helped her up, she whined, "Henry! Baby! You still love me, don't you? You understand I had to go in hospital, I had to get well…."
"Tell me what day Ritchie was born," Kate continued, still locked on Louise. "Amaze us. Never mind the year, the day and month is good enough."
"Katie." Louise rose with all the dignity available to an inebriated senior citizen in designer trackies. "Never mind that art nonsense, Ritchie's a lost cause. Not because of me, because of you. You stole him from me. Bribed him and lied to him and made him forget me. But you won't do that with Henry, because you're giving Maura custody."
"I don't want—" Henry tried to interject.
"I don't take orders from you," Kate shouted at Louise.
"Henry's my son," Maura put in.
"I'm right here!" Henry cried. "Doesn't anyone care what I want?" Whirling, he tried to dart out of the parlor, but Tony blocked his escape.
"You have to stand your ground," he whispered in the boy's ear. "Run now, and you'll never stop."
Forcibly turning Henry to face Kate, Maura, and Louise, Tony said, "Well, ladies? It's a fair question. Do any of you care what he wants?"
Kate made a shocked sound. "How can you ask me that?"
"I would die for Henry!" Maura surged forth as if to embrace the boy.
"No!" Throwing himself against Tony, Henry sobbed noisily into his coat. Unsure how to respond, either to the gale of emotion or the death grip around his middle—it was his first time being seized by a weeping child—he decided to just carry on.
"I await your answer," he told Louise. "Do you care what he wants?"
"Kiddies don't know what they want. Or need. That's why God made adults, innit?"
"Terribly sorry, milord," Harvey announced jubilantly from the door. His uniform had been replaced, his comb-over back where it belonged. "Scotland Yard is on the line. They've rung your mobile several times, sir. Must be a satellite issue."
Tony, infamous among his younger colleagues for switching off his mobile when it suited him, nodded as if carrier failure was obviously at fault. "Who called?"
"Dispatch, milord. There's been a homicide. SCO19 has been summoned. The scene may still be hot." Harvey kept his face blank, as if he took no pleasure in casual use of Met lingo, but satisfaction radiated off him in waves. Tony knew how much his manservant enjoyed coming to the rescue.
"What's a hot scene?" Henry asked.
"One where the bloke what did it might still be loitering about," Louise said wisely. "Bloody hell, Katie, don't you let the little bugger watch Crimewatch ?"
"What's the address?" Tony asked Harvey.
His manservant indulged in an infinitesimal pause for effect. "Twenty-four Euston Place, milord."
Kate caught her breath. "But that's.…"
"In this very neighborhood," Tony agreed. "Just down the street. Therefore, though it pains me to do so" —he smiled—"I fear I must ask our guests to leave."
"Right. We'll
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