“Good point,” Pickering said. “Did Sarah say anything to you during this incident?”
“No, she didn’t have time before I went into the water, and I was in no state to have a conversation with her after they got me aboard again.”
“Good,” Pickering said, almost to himself. “Do you recall any display of attitude or emotion on her part after you were back aboard?”
“No, I was shivering too badly to notice, then I must have fallen asleep or passed out. I don’t remember being brought from the yacht back to the house.”
“Good,” Pickering repeated. “Well, I think that’s all; we can enjoy our breakfast now.”
“Have you spoken to Sarah?”
“Yes, about an hour ago.”
“How is she?”
“Grieving, feeling guilty that she may have done something to cause James’s death. That’s preposterous, of course.”
“It’s not preposterous, but in my judgment, for what it’s worth, the whole thing was an accident.”
Pickering gazed over Stone’s shoulder and out the window. He seemed to be considering something. “Tell me, Stone,” he said finally, “if I may call you that . . .”
“Of course.”
“What do you know of Sarah’s personal circumstances?”
“Not much. I haven’t seen her for a year or so, since she left New York.”
“I understand you were, ah, close, while she was there?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Have you had any contact with her since she left New York?”
“None at all, until we met here on Friday evening.”
“No letters or phone calls? Email?”
“No.”
“And how did you come to be here this weekend?”
“I was invited by Monica Burroughs.”
“Did you know that the house party was to be at the home of Sarah’s parents and that the occasion was the announcement of her engagement to James Cutler?”
“Not until we were driving down here from London.”
“So Sarah was surprised to see you?”
“No, I asked Monica to call her and explain that I was coming.”
“Had Monica not planned to tell her?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Why ever not?”
“I believe that Monica had intended my visit as a surprise.”