Zou Zou emerged from the bakery while a boy followed her, his arms piled high with boxes. Darcy ran across the street to open the back door for her. I was about to follow when a voice behind me said, “Well, if it isn’t the young lady. What perfect timing. I’ve been dying to have a little chat with you.” And it was the female American reporter I had met at the Harp. She was wearing a raincoat and had a scarf tied over her blond curls. And she was giving me a big friendly smile. “I’d just love to have a little chat, honey. Do you have a minute? I believe the pub is shut, with your stupid licensing laws, but we could go into the tearoom. They do cream buns. Much better than we can get at home.”

“I’m afraid I’m with friends and I can’t just desert them,” I said.

“With a special friend, so I gather.” She gave me a knowing look. I was noticing that in spite of the blond hair her eyes were dark. Not a natural hair color, I suspected. But then neither was my mother’s. She moved closer and touched my arm. “So tell me, he’s the son of the lord, isn’t he? I don’t suppose you could use your charms to get me an interview with his lordship? The police have set up a barrier now that everyone has realized the lord has been released and is at home. We can’t get anywhere near the place. So frustrating.”

“I can assure you that the last thing his lordship wants is to talk to any reporters,” I said. “Please respect his privacy. You can understand what a difficult time it must be for him.”

“So tell me,” she went on, lowering her voice. “Do you think he did it? Is he going to plead guilty when it comes to trial?”

“I’m sure he’s not, and I’m sure he didn’t do it,” I replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me . . .” I broke away from her and was returning to the Rolls, where boxes were still being loaded onto the backseat, when I spotted a familiar figure parked outside the Harp pub. It was Barney the taxi driver. He waved when he saw me.

“Still here, then? So you found yourself a place to stay?”

“I did, thank you,” I said.

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? And I notice she’s still here,” he said, nodding across the street to where my American lady lingered, watching me.

“Was she the one who gave you the pound tip?” I asked, remembering.