"Well! That’s when she killed him."

The speaker, a monstrous woman with Gorgon-glaring eyes, looked expectantly at the people around the mirror-polished mahogany, most of whom were just finishing their second or third glass of Champagne.

"Don’t you see?" she prompted, frustrated.

The young gentleman from town downed his seventh libation to the blonde Goddess by his side and turned his Heathcliff eyes away from the desserts on the chiffonier.

"This sounds intriguing, Mrs Gray. Do continue, please," he said, casually raising his obese cigar to his lips.

"No, you don’t see, do you, Charles? None of you do," the storyteller said with a pout. Then, with a nervous half-glance at the slight woman on her right, she added, "That was the occasion I was telling you all about," as if in explanation. The young man, Charles, leaned across the table and gave her ring-ridden fingers a condescending squeeze.

"I think perhaps you should start from the beginning, Mrs Gray. We’re all dying to know what you’re talking about. I don’t think any of us guessed there were scandals in your past!"

"Would you mind me telling the rest, George?" she asked the meditative man on her left. He turned his attention from the hour-fast old grandfather clock to his bread-and-butter knife with a quiet "no, dear", but she did not notice. She was trying to hear what the object of Charles’ worship was saying; but, as this was the sort of girl who preferred not to speak (at least not when others were present) and who looked at one’s plate instead of one’s face, the question had to be repeated.

"Wouldn’t she mind you telling that story, Joan?"

"Frankly, dear", said Mrs Gray, "I don’t think she knows what we’re talking about." She looked again at the girl on her right, who was eating her Brussels sprouts gingerly and delicately, but with a certain eagerness, completely oblivious to any conversation. The long, black ripples of her hair spread a fine, lacy veil across her back, reaching as far as her tiny waist; and its dark nightness, combined with that of her hard navy evening dress, made her appear quite cold. There was no softness or warmth in her; her eyes had neither brightness nor depth, and her skin, displayed by a low-cut, V-shaped neckline, was powder-pale.

"It happened at a summer garden party Rupert and I held, fifteen years ago," Mrs Gray said abruptly. The thing on her right looked at the grandfather clock and carried on eating. "I’ve just realised," the older woman continued: "It’s fifteen years ago tomorrow."

"Don’t be bloody calculating," said George.

"It was fizzling out at this point, only a few people left, and I was beginning to collect the plates and glasses. Little Lydia was fed up and bored, as there were so few others there of her age, so I asked her to get a couple of crocks in for me from the patio tables and I would start the washing up. So, she did.

"I didn’t know it was there, did I? I wouldn’t have told her to clear the tables if I had, would I? She was compelled to tell on, but first she looked again at her audience. The matronly madam at the end of the table had put her ivory-rimmed spectacles on again. Opposite Joan, Charles, who had still not returned his gaze to the twittering blonde, had stopped fondling the stem of his goblet. Nobody was paying all their attention to the bubbly any longer. All eyes were fixed on Joan Gray.

Except for those of the young woman on her right.

And George’s.

The story continued:

"I didn’t actually see what happened. We only found out when the police constable questioned her. They said she wasn’t to blame, though. She was only six years old. She wouldn’t tell me how it happened. All she said was, "It was only Guy. No-one, really. Only Guy." I think she knew I was upset. Well, wouldn’t you be?" she squawked accusingly at the Goddess. The Goddess whimpered.

"When she toddled into the kitchen, all I knew was that on top of the tray she was carrying was a bloody carving knife. I was oblivious to everything else. It had been used for carving the duck, but I’d forgotten all about it. And then, she says, "It was only Guy" I couldn’t believe my ears! "It was only Guy!" As if she regarded the death of an eight-year-old boy as an everyday event!"

"Calm down, please, Mrs Gray," cooed Charles, soothingly.

"Yes. Please forgive me," she mumbled, and looked again at the slender young woman on her right. She was sipping from her goblet, holding it as though it were as delicate as a bubble, her eyes were closed in intense concentration on the precious liquid.

George knocked over his drink.

"When she walked into that kitchen," continued Mrs Gray, "her face was red, not pale as it usually was, and still is. Her hands were shaking; I thought she was going to drop the tray. Her eyes were large, nothing in them." Mrs Gray’s were staring straight into the air around Charles’ shoulder. "She just put the tray down - in front of me! can you believe that? - and went upstairs to her room. They told me I’d fainted. Yes, I think I must have done, because I don’t remember anything from then until when the police constables arrived. That was a horrible afternoon. The only way they could get Lydia to tell them how it happened was to make her pretend she was telling a story, a mystery story or something. As though Guy’s death was an adventure! She said - and she said it just like this, I remember every word - "Guy said my Mummy doesn’t love my Daddy any more. I told him he was a liar. Then he said "Your Mummy loves George now." I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t, so I hit him with the knife." The constable had the gall to ask how she hit him and made her show him with a doll. And do you know what she did? She insisted on using that knife to demonstrate. The constable gave her a bread-and-butter knife, but she said, "I didn’t use that one." They had to give it to her. She brought the blade straight down onto the china doll’s crown and broke it."

George threw his goblet at the grandfather clock.

"I don’t think Lydia understood what had happened when Rupert’s plane crashed three months later. But when George asked me to marry him.... that’s when she stopped talking."

"She doesn’t smile, either, does she?" commented Charles, as though the fact was an oddity, a mere curiosity to be wondered at. "Or even look at people."

"No," agreed Mrs Gray. "The doctors said it was the shock of finding out Guy was right after all." She looked once more at the girl on her right and wondered, as she often did, whether Lydia really was oblivious to everyone else, or just ignoring them.

"It seemed George’s own son knew him better than he did himself," said Mrs Gray.

George sobbed.