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I pushed a couple of the bowls of bar snacks in Tewel's direction. He stared at them for a few moments as if he didn't know what they were, then picked hesitantly at the closest one. He nodded, grunted, dug in with gusto. I didn't try and talk while he was eating. Instead I just picked at another of the dishes. Given the way he was eating, if I wanted any of it I'd better help myself as quickly as possible. The waiter had obviously spotted that at least one of us was determined to get drunk as quickly as possible even though it was barely lunchtime. He hurried across with the third round I had ordered, arriving just in time to clear the bowls that Tewel had so thoroughly emptied and our increasing collection of discarded glasses. I drained my own glass and surrendered it to the barkeep who left with just a single glass apiece and the bar bill. "So, we're going to work together on this one?" I asked the detective over the rim of my tumbler. He grunted again, nodded slowly. "I'll drink to that," he said, raising his glass in my direction. I returned the toast, our glasses clinking together. I sipped my cordial. It was cool and fresh, but tasted of nothing much after the whiskey I ha consumed earlier. Tewel poured most of his bourbon down his throat in one go. He caught my eye briefly, then sagged forward. He had managed to maintain the facade of calm control, even after three rounds of the strong drink, but now he seemed to be on the verge of collapse, an overwhelming tiredness as the alcohol, not to mention the saturated fats and carbohydrates, finally caught up with him. "Go home," I said gently, "Get a few hours sleep." "Gotta get back to the station," he muttered indistinctly, then yawned hugely. "No. Home first," I replied, as if talking to a child. He didn't respond, just sat there with hooded eyelids. I inspected the bill, then dug a few notes - enough to cover the cost and a reasonable tip - from my wallet and tossed them on the table. I stood, put my hat on my head and roughly repositioned Tewel's own headgear. I tugged him to his feet and guided him across the bar, me chatting in an animated fashion about nothing in particular. His contribution to the conversation was negligible. Nobody seemed particularly interested in our departure. Just two old friends catching up over a boozy lunch. Tewel lived in a modest apartment in a block not significantly more up-market than mine. I guided him home easily enough. He was able to walk, more-or-less, on some kind of autopilot but there was not enough higher brain function remaining for either guidance or conversation. At the door, he came to enough to dig through his pockets to find his key. I took it from his unresisting fingers and turned it in the lock. Once inside, I divested him of his hat and coat and shoes, and laid him on the bed where he started snoring immediately. I grinned wryly, then left him there with a promise - almost certainly unheard - to catch up that evening, or tomorrow morning at the latest. I tossed the keys on the nightstand by the bed and showed myself out, pulling the front door closed behind me. I made my usual cautious way back to the portal which would take me back to New York. There was nobody on my tail today, as far as I could tell. As I scanned the streets and passers-by automatically, I mused on the players in the case. It occurred to me that Lady Strowan Westwood was not only a great beauty, but also a truly great actress. In her prime, she could by turns terrify and charm, and make her audience weep with joy or relief or sadness. It also occurred to me that Mayfield took after her famous grandmother in a great many ways: in looks and charm and strength of personality. And Cairnie had inherited the looks, too, although maybe the strength of character had come out in a completely different way. I wondered if exceptional acting skills also ran in the family.
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Part 71