since the funeral of william and the hanging of justine, ernest had not known how to approach his elder brother. it was natural, of course, that every member of the family ought to be sombre after a loss like this one, but victor’s grief had tipped over into something approaching mania. ernest had never seen him this way, even after the death of their mother; something, this time, was different, and ernest knew not how to ascertain what it was. he and victor had never been close — owing, perhaps, more to the difference in their ages than to any fault in either of their personalities, as ernest had been no more than ten when victor had departed for university. after victor’s four-year absence, he felt more like a stranger than a brother.
what victor had said before the trial of justine weighed heavily on ernest’s mind. ‘you are mistaken,’ victor had cried, when ernest had told him of justine’s arrest; ‘i know the murderer. justine, poor, good justine, is innocent.’ he had said it with a desperate conviction that had robbed the breath from ernest’s lungs. it was natural to doubt the guilt of so gentle and so tender a woman as justine, but victor had spoken as if he himself had watched the murder done by another’s hand.
after several days of agonising contemplation, ernest could remain silent upon the matter no longer. wringing his hands together and composing his opening remarks over and over again in his head, he searched the rooms of the household one by one until he finally found victor, melancholy and alone, stretched out on the sofa in the vast library.
“ —victor? may i speak with you? ”
