Dean tried to ignore Edith Shipton's body as he passed the temporary catafalque erected in his office. But he couldn't avert his eyes from the white-sheeted form, the last remnants of the warmth of life slipping away. He paused and said a silent prayer for the spirit of this person who had brought so much grief to Bird Song and his previously contented life. Once in his bedroom, he closed the door and again tried to telephone Cynthia. The only response was the echo of an unanswered ring. He dressed but instead of returning to his duties, lay back on his bed, depressed and exhausted.
Later, Dean heard the movement of the mortuary men coming for Edith-the hushed conversation and the bumping and thumping as the lifeless shell of this troubled woman was bagged and forever removed from Bird Song. Only silence remained as he lay there, wanting to escape from all that was happening, surrender in the peace of sleep, but even sleep eluded him. At length he heard the sound of a soft knock on his door. He assumed it was Fred, with a tray of food and a peck of good intentions, but just now, even his stepfather was not a welcome visitor. "Go away," Dean said, unmoving.
In spite of his admonition the door opened, not to Fred O'Connor, but to Claire Quincy who closed the door behind her and stood with nervous defiance at the foot of his bed.
"I saw her, naked, after you two...had your pleasure together." She waved her hand at the bed, as if to indicate the location of his foul deed. Dean looked at her but made no effort to rise. He knew better than to deny anything to this tunnel-visioned woman. "The police are still here, but I haven't told them." Then, she added with a snarl, "Yet."
"Why not?" Dean asked, out of no more than a mild curiosity. Claire could shout it to the world, for all he cared. Tell them that naked Edith Shipton came out of his room and moments later hanged herself. After all, Corday had already painted him an adulterer. The investigator might as well have his "proof." To Dean, his reputation mattered only in the eyes of one person, his wife. He didn't give a flip what Corday thought.
"You're just like her and she was a whore."
"I guess you've been learning a lot about women of street this week," Dean muttered, sick of the pretentious woman.
Claire stiffened and turned away. With her back still toward him, she asked what must have been the most difficult questioned she ever voiced. "Are you going to tell everyone...those awful stories about my great-aunt?"