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though him.
Surely Delores would not put herself through so much trouble if she
were not – deep down – serious about his intentions. Just then,
someone popped out from the bushes.
    It was Lionel Trueman. His face was purple
with rage, as if he had spent some time stoking his anger.
    “I thought it was you who went in that door
two hours ago,” he seethed.
    “What business is it of yours?” Macy said,
coming up to the taller man.
    “The widow is mine,” Trueman said. “And I
don’t appreciate people who meddle in my affairs.”
    “The widow belongs to herself,” Macy said.
“But she does invite me here almost every afternoon. I’d hardly
call that meddling.”
    “You are a fool if you think you can horn in
my territory.”
    “I don’t consider it your territory.”
    “The lady was with me all morning.”
    “I spent the afternoon in her sewing-room !” Macy was becoming extremely upset at this
upstart customs official.
    “You are only after her money. Everybody
knows your shop is failing.”
    “Are you accusing me of being dishonourable
in my intentions?” Macy blustered, getting red in the face
himself.
    “I am.”
    “Those are fighting words.”
    “I meant them to be.” Trueman leaned forward
and hovered over Macy, glaring at him.
    “You want to settle this matter once and for
all?” Macy said.
    “If you’re suggesting a duel, I say bring it
on. We’ll find out whose intentions are honourable.”
    “Pistols at twenty paces,” Macy snapped.
    “On the cricket grounds at seven o’clock,”
Trueman said.
    Having said their peace, both men continued
to glower silently at one another. If they regretted their haste,
they were not prepared to show it. Just above them, at her
sewing-room window, the Widow Delores watched the proceedings.
There was a smile on her face.
    ***
    That evening the air was cool and refreshing. A
harvest moon shone brightly. Deep shadows played across the lawn
behind Rosewood. Into one of these stepped a dark figure. It moved
stealthily across to the back stoop. There it paused momentarily,
and then reached a gloved hand up and gently tapped on the door. It
instantly opened to reveal a woman swathed in a crimson robe. She
stretched out a hand and pulled the figure inside. The moon
continued to shine.
     

THREE

    Horace Macy was just thinking about preparing for
bed when the knock came at his front door. He tucked in his shirt,
hauled up his braces and went to answer it. There on his porch
stood Constance Brown, his one-time fiancée. (They had been good
friends even before the death of Macy’s wife.) She was short,
slightly plump woman in her mid-thirties, with a mop of frizzled,
ginger hair and blue eyes, and tonight she looked somewhat
dishevelled.
    “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me in?” she said,
staring him down.
    Macy recovered his aplomb enough to reply,
“Of course. You are always welcome here.
    She stepped inside, and Macy moved back to
accommodate her.
    “It’s just that you startled me, Constance. I
wasn’t expecting anybody this time of night.”
    “I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour, but
there are some things I just have to get off my chest.”
    “I hope this isn’t about the engagement.”
    “It is. And I’d like to sit down – if you
don’t mind.”
    “But that’s all in the past,” Macy said,
following Constance meekly into the living-room and watching her
remove her coat and take a seat. He sat down beside her.
    “I thought you would have come to your senses
by now,” she said, turning to look directly at him. He cringed.
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “I mean that woman, that’s what I mean.”
    “Delores?”
    “Of course, Delores. Who else have you been
making a fool of yourself with?”
    “Now, Constance. I know we were engaged once,
but I broke that off honourably – ”
    “We were more than engaged, and you threw me
over for a fallen woman with bags of money.”
    “Delores’s money has nothing to do