I walked back out into the long gallery, staring up at the weapons on the walls. Then my eye moved to the great fireplace. If I wanted to hide something might I not shove it up a chimney? As I walked toward it I saw something shining ahead of me as a shaft of slanted sunlight suddenly shone in through a window. It was one of the knobs of the big brass fender. The strange thing was that the other knob was dull and dusty. Which made no sense, unless . . .

“Darcy!” I called. “Look at this!”

Darcy came to join me.

“This knob has been polished, but the one at the other end hasn’t. Why do you think that is?”

“Someone had reason to wipe it clean,” he said slowly. I nodded. “What if he wasn’t killed with the club at all? What if he was pushed or fell backward and hit his head on the fender?”

“But that could be classed as an accident,” Darcy said. “Why turn it into a crime?”

“Because someone wanted to make it look as if your father was guilty, because he had the good motive. Everyone here knew he was sacked after the doping scandal. It would be a local crime and nobody would look into American connections too deeply.”

“Perhaps they hadn’t meant to kill Roach at all,” Darcy went on. “Perhaps there was a struggle when this Lofty fellow showed up and wanted a share of the profits and threatened to expose Roach.” He got down on his knees and examined the Persian rug on the floor. Then he lifted it and gave a small cry of glee. “We’re right, Georgie. Look, some blood has seeped through to the other side. He did die here. And was dragged or carried through to the library, where blood from the wound was transferred onto the club.”

“Unfortunately that doesn’t prove that your father didn’t do it,” I said. “He could easily have shoved Bugsy. We have to just pray that they find the other two gang members.”

“And that they talk,” Darcy said grimly. Then he added, “You know, I’m sure the library used to be bigger. Not just because I remember it as a child. My sister and I used to build forts with books when my father wasn’t around and we would both lie on the floor over there. Now there isn’t enough room.” He stopped, thinking. Then he went to the far wall, pulled out some books and rapped on the back of the bookcase. It made a hollow sort of sound.

“Look at this, Georgie,” Darcy exclaimed. “These shelves are newly made—not from good old oak like the rest, but ordinary pine.”