Laura wondered if she was overtired, because normally she would have balked, but she nodded and walked into the house. There was something very . . . convincing . . . about Polly.

The barking stopped instantly when they closed the front door, and a medium-sized dog waved a plumy tail and greeted Laura politely. He or she looked like a small Irish wolfhound, but speckly. Dogs always make things better, thought Laura, reaching down to pet him.

“This is Herbert,” said Polly. “He’s one of Maggie’s dogs. There’s another one somewhere, and a cat . . . You’re not allergic, are you?”

Laura shook her head, looking around. The interior of the house was dark and cool and very simple. Laura had never been to England, but this house reminded her of every Masterpiece Theater show she’d ever binged. It smelled of fresh flowers, orange oil, and, distantly, baking bread. Heaven probably smelled like this. It was clearly a family home, and worn in places, but there were few photos or knickknacks around to suggest the presence of children. She was going to ask Polly for more information, but then they were in the kitchen and an older woman was coming forward and smiling.

“Hi there,” she said, holding out her hand. “You must be Polly’s friend Laura, how are you? I’m Maggie Morse, I’m Polly’s landlord.” She laughed, as if the very idea was funny, then said, “Polly told me about the fire, how awful. That was literally today?” Her expression went from amusement to sympathy in the flicker of an eye; her face was as mobile as a child’s. She was tall, though not as tall as Laura, with big brown eyes, short dark hair shot with gray, laugh lines and wrinkles and no makeup. If you had a problem and were scanning a crowd looking for help, hers was the face you’d stop at.

Laura shook her hand. “Yes, this morning. I’d left already, so I missed it breaking out, fortunately. By the time I got back this afternoon, it was extinguished and roped off.”

Maggie clicked her tongue. “What did the landlord say?” She turned and flicked on a kettle, much as Liz had done earlier.

Laura shrugged. “He was there, he was handing out his business card and offered to pay for everyone to stay in a hotel while he sorted out the insurance.” She thought of the landlord’s sad and anxious face, like a basset hound who’d watched his investment go up in smoke (basset hounds are big speculators, surprisingly). “Not all the apartments were burned, but everything was damaged.” The smell of bread was much stronger in here, with an undercurrent of good red wine, and she looked around for somewhere to sit. Then she realized they weren’t alone.