The glasses brought the dormers of the attic into sharp relief. I couldn’t make out great detail in the dark, but enough to see the skylight cut into the steep roof. The small windows underneath the eaves were uncurtained. The main entrance, where the local cop and I had both parked, was to the left, at right angles to the side facing Anodyne Park. Anyone coming onto the property from the road would be easy to spot from here, if you were looking, but if someone approached from the meadows at the rear, they would be shielded from view by the stable and greenhouse.

“I found empty bottles and so on when I was walking around,” I said, still scanning the house for any signs of light or life. “People are clearly coming onto the property now that it’s vacant. Do you think that’s who you’re seeing?”

“Oh, I suppose working people feel a certain triumph in having sex on the old Drummond grounds,” she said dismissively, “but I have seen lights flicker in the attic late at night. The skylight is revealing of what’s inside as well as what’s out. It was the servants’ common room when my mother managed Larchmont. As a child, I used to go up there and watch the maids play poker. She didn’t know about their card games, but children and servants are natural allies.

“After Mother died, I shut up the attic and moved the remaining staff to the third floor. I wasn’t entertaining on a grand scale, I didn’t use those bedrooms. Or all those servants Mother thought essential for running Larchmont as if it were Blenheim Palace.

“It’s been most odd to see those lights, as if my mother’s servants had returned to play poker up there. My son assured me you were a competent investigator. I do expect you to take my complaint seriously, unlike our local police force. After all, my son is paying you.”

I turned back to her, laying the binoculars on the piecrust table. “Did you or Darraugh report this business to the titleholder, or the estate agents? They’d be the ones most concerned.”

` Julius Arnoff. He’s courteous, but he doesn’t quite believe me. I realize that I no longer own the house,” she said. “But I still feel a keen interest in its well-being. I told Darraugh when the police were so unhelpful that I would prefer my own investigator, who would owe me the necessity of reports. Which reminds me: I don’t believe you told me your name, young woman. Darraugh did, but I’ve forgotten it.”

“Warshawski. V 1. Warshawski.”

“Oh, these Polish names. They’re like eels sliding around the tongue. What did my son tell me he calls you? Vic? I will call you Victoria. Will you write your phone number on this pad? In large numbers; I don’t want to have to use a magnifying glass if I need to summon you in a hurry.”

Horrifying visions of Ms. Graham feeling free to call me at three in the morning when she had insomnia, or at odd moments during the day when loneliness overtook her, made me give her only my office number. My answering service would deflect her most of the time.