"He does that," Rafferty said. "He conducted a six-month assessment of the second footman before allowing himself to be fed by him."
"And what was the verdict?"
"Inconclusive. He tolerates the footman but has never fully committed."
She looked at Hegel. Hegel looked at her. Something passed between them that was, in Rafferty's observation, the specific communication of a dog deciding a thing. Hegel settled down on the library rug with the heaviness of a creature that has arrived at a conclusion and intends to stay.
It rained on the afternoon of the twenty-second of August with the sudden, comprehensive commitment that late English summers reserve for their worst displays. There were twelve people at the Haverstock property for what had begun as an outdoor gathering. There were not twelve good reasons for anyone to have planned an outdoor gathering in late August in Yorkshire, but the morning had been excellent, and the gazebo was large, and everyone had said it would probably be fine.
It was not fine. They came in from the rain in a wave—umbrellas useless, slippers ruined, at least one hat beyond recovery—and sorted themselves into the rooms of the Haverstock house with the cheerful resignation of people who have been defeated by weather and intend to make the best of it.
Rafferty and Adelaide reached the rose garden gazebo from different directions at approximately the same moment because it was the nearest structure to where they had each been standing. They arrived at it simultaneously, which produced a brief collision at the entrance that Adelaide navigated by stepping back, Rafferty by stepping sideways, and Hegel—who had been trotting behind Rafferty—by sitting down in the rain with the dignified exasperation of a creature above such things.
"Hegel," Rafferty said.
Hegel came in. He shook himself extensively.
The gazebo was approximately eight feet across. There was a stone bench, a table that had seen better seasons, and a view of the rose garden that would have been pleasant in other weather. Rain came at the roof in waves and ran in sheets off the edges. The garden had become, in the space of four minutes, a kind of small ornamental river. They stood at opposite edges of the bench and looked at the rain.
"This is my fault," Adelaide said.
"In what sense?"