I looked at him and said carefully, “What I told you about the manor house—what happened here, well—here, it felt—not the same, but—I don’t know—similar, somehow.” I shrugged. “I just thought it might be—related.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, and then went and collapsed into his armchair. He picked up the volume of Spenser, and held it with a curious tenderness before putting it down again.
“They killedhim,” he said, speaking in a low, slightly choked voice and not looking at me. “Up at the manor house. He was their son, but they killedhim.”
I stared. “They murdered their own son?”
The man raised his head and regarded me balefully. “No. He committed suicide.”
“Oh.”
“But they drove him to it!” He hit his palm with a fist again. “They killedhim!” And then he lowered his head again, and his shoulders shook, as though he were sobbing.
After a while, I ventured to ask timidly, “How?”