Back on the other side of the front hall, the study door was shut. I knocked softly and went in. Empty. Damn. Except hang on. The long leather Chesterfield sofa with its back to me had feet sticking out from one end, over the arm, gray-socked, and male. I crept in and around, expecting to surprise Roger, doubtless just settling down for a read of the newspaper and a cup of coffee, which under normal circumstances he'd do in the gunroom, but who wants to be disturbed by that wretched girl and her paintbrushes. Instead, fast asleep, I found Tommy. His normally ruddy face looked washed out: his forehead was creased and his wavy red hair, graying at the temples, stood on end. His mouth was open and drooped dramatically at the sides. It struck me he'd slept in last night's clothes, chinos and a smart shirt, not daytime wear. He looked strangely vulnerable, for Tommy. All around, on the floor and the sofa, lay a sea of papers. Enormously surprised, I nonetheless crept away. Although clearly, not quite quietly enough.

"Hello?"

I'd reached the door. I paused. Turned. Came back round, where he could see me.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb."

On seeing me, his eyes, which had been cloudy, cleared instantly. He swung his legs round and sat up. Rubbed his face vigorously with the palms of his hands.

"What time is it?"

"About ten o’clock. Sorry—"

"No, no, stay. It's fine."

I hovered uncertainly.

“Sit, even."

I glanced at the chair at Roger's desk. Swung it round and perched even less of a buttock than I'd rested in the kitchen.

"Were you . . . working in here?" I asked hesitantly, looking around at the papers.

"Oh." His eyes followed mine. "Yes. Till far too late, I guess. Lost track of time."

"You slept here?"

"Well, I didn't intend to."

Even upside down I could read Bellingdon Water on a few of the letterheads. Plus a wavy blue logo I was familiar with.

"Helping Hugo?"

"Yeah. Trying to. And getting somewhere, until my eyes closed. I guess I'll go again later today." He smiled sheepishly and began shuffling the papers together. They were mostly awash with figures.

I frowned. “Does he need your help? I mean . . . Hugo's usually so on top of things." I suppose I might have sounded slightly defensive, as if I suspected Tommy of interfering.

Tommy glanced up from paper-shuffling, blue eyes sharp. “That's right Flora. Hugo is on top of things. And he works so hard, as you, his mother and Christina are fond of telling me.”

“Well . . .” I was flummoxed. “He does work hard.”

"Agreed. He does."

His tone was harsh, but worry made me fail to retaliate. "Is he in trouble?"

“Define trouble."

"Well, you tell me, Tommy. I know he faces accusations of spillage and sewer leaks. Is it that?"

"Let's put it this way. It doesn't help."

He wasn't expanding. He went back to the papers. He was being very taciturn.