‘You’re fidgety tonight, Son,’ Algernon commented. He’d watched Clement stir his soup three times, lift his spoon twice, and plonk it back in the bowl, splashing broth and vegetables onto the tablecloth. Chunks of ripped bread sat on his plate, crumbs scattered beneath, and the linen napkin had been screwed in a ball, wrung, and twisted.
‘I’m not feeling well, sir.’
Benedict could see that. Pale and drawn, his clothes and hair tidied, but not fresh or particularly clean, he suspected Clement was not sleeping, and by the way he toyed with his food, not eating either.
A tap on the door, and two waiters brought in the next course. A simple roast beef and vegetables with gravy. One of the waiters cleared the table with a soft ‘Are you finished with the soup, sir?’ Benedict waved him on and
