They were like middle-aged people, handsome enough, vigorous and voluptuous, until set beside the flawless freshness of the young. The trees had no comparison to bear, for they were all growing old, all beginning to get tired, their leaves dry and browning the edges. Again, like aging humankind, they were fine when seen from a distance, less delectable in close-up. Wexford looked at the trees as he got out of his car and thought how the first time he had come up here interview the Devenishes they had been in green bud. Stephen Devenish would never see them turn brown and fall. He would see nothing ever again. Wexford believed it was wrong to feel satisfaction at anyone’s death, but except for the circumstances, he would have felt positive pleasure and gratitude at Devenish’s. Except for the circumstances. . . He would have given a lot to find out that she was somewhere else when her husband met his death, far far away out of reach and traveling distance.
