Read The Sunday Philosophy Club for Free Online Page A

me a little lecture on how the press should behave,” he said. “I suppose you’re entitled to do that, if you wish. But it’s a pity your own moral authority is a little bit shaky.”
    She looked at him blankly, uncertain how to interpret his remark.
    “You see, you lied,” McManus went on. “You said that you went home, whereas I happen to know, from my conversationswith the police, and with somebody else, that you went upstairs. You were seen looking down from the exact spot where he fell. But you very carefully failed to mention this to me. In fact, you said that you went home. Why would you lie to me, I wonder.”
    Isabel answered quickly. “I had no reason to tell you that. It had nothing at all to do with the incident.”
    “Really?” sneered McManus. “But what if I said that I thought you know more about this incident than you’re letting on? Don’t you think I’d be entitled to reach that conclusion now?”
    Isabel moved towards the door and opened it pointedly. “I don’t have to put up with this in my own home,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind leaving now.”
    McManus rose to his feet, taking his time. “Sure,” he said. “It’s your house. And I have no wish to outstay my welcome.”
    She walked to the hallway and opened the front door. McManus followed, stooping for a moment to inspect a painting on the way.
    “You have some beautiful things,” he said. “Money?”

CHAPTER FOUR

    C OOKING IN A TEMPER required caution with the pepper; one might put far too much in and ruin a risotto in sheer pique. She felt dirtied by contact with McManus, as she inevitably did on those occasions when she found herself talking to somebody whose outlook on life was completely amoral. There were a surprising number of such people, she thought, and they were becoming more common; people to whom the idea of a moral sense seemed to be quite alien. What had appalled her most about McManus was the fact that he intended to talk to the parents, whose grief counted less for him than the desire of the public to witness the suffering of others. She shuddered. There was nobody, it seemed, to whom one might appeal; nobody who seemed prepared to say: Leave those poor people in peace.
    She stirred the risotto, taking a small spoonful to test it for seasoning. The liquid from the soaked porcini mushrooms had imparted its flavour to the rice, and it was perfect. Soon she could put the dish in the lower oven and leave it there until Cat and Toby sat down with her at the table. In the meantime, there was a salad to prepare and a bottle of wine to open.
    She felt calmer by the time the doorbell rang and she admittedher guests. The evening had turned cool, and Cat was wearing a full-length brown coat which Isabel had bought her for a birthday several years ago. She took this off and laid it down on a hall chair, revealing a long red dress underneath. Toby, who was a tall young man a year or two older than Cat, was wearing a dark brown tweed jacket and a roll-top shirt underneath. Isabel glanced at his trousers, which were crushed-strawberry corduroy; exactly what she would expect him to wear. He had never surprised her in that respect. I must try, she thought. I have to try to like him.
    Cat had brought a plate of smoked salmon, which she took through to the kitchen with Isabel while Toby waited for them in the downstairs drawing room.
    “Are you feeling any better?” Cat asked. “You seemed so miserable this morning.”
    Isabel took the plate of fish from her niece and removed the protective covering of foil.
    “Yes,” she said. “I’m feeling much better.” She did not mention the journalist’s visit, partly because she wanted not to be thought to be dwelling on the subject and partly because she wanted to put it out of her mind.
    They laid out the salmon and returned to the drawing room. Toby was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Isabel offered her guests a drink, which she poured from