“Of course. Quite so.” Philip got up heavily and walked slowly to the door. Livingston’s assistant was waiting to escort him into a nearby office. Divide and conquer, the oldest police device of all, Livingston thought as he watched Philip’s hunched shoulders and rumpled jacket fade from view.

Livingston noted that Philip had avoided Val’s warning stare; it seemed a good sign that he did not make eye contact with her.

“Miss Twyler—a few questions.”

She spent the next hour parrying with him, using exactly the reasoning he had expected from her. She had been the governess in the home of Athena’s aunt when the terrible tragedy occurred. Naturally, like everyone else, she had been questioned. The police visited her repeatedly at the Pearsons Hall campus. You can imagine the gossip. She had no idea Athena had come to St. Polycarp’s as a student.

“You never confided this to your fiancé, Professor Whitcomb?”

“There are some things we try to put behind us, not dig up.”

“Like bodies?” Livingston suggested. “But obviously Philip confided something to you. What was it?”

“I don’t know what he meant by that.”

“You at one time had a blue Austin, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed.

“Do you happen to remember the license number?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Would it begin with three-one-five?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Miss Twyler, Athena Popolous had written ‘B.A. three-one-five’ on a matchbook cover from the Bull and Bear. Why do you suppose she did that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Were you in the Bull and Bear on the night of April 23, ten years ago, when you came to Oxford for your interview?”

“I stopped to have a bite before I drove back to Pearsons Hall. I’m not sure which pub.”

“Do you know a Cameron Hardwick?”

For the first time she looked flustered. “I’m not sure.”

“The proprietor of the Barleyneck Inn can verify that you’ve rendezvoused there on and off for ten years.”

“That was before I became engaged to Philip.”

“You had tea in his room there last Saturday.”

“To tell him I was getting married.”

A cool one, Livingston thought again. “Isn’t it quite a coincidence that Cameron Hardwick is on the Queen Guinevere?”

“No. He sails frequently.”

“What does he do?”

“Investment counseling. There are many older women with a great deal of money on those cruises.”

Possible, Livingston thought. Circumstantial, damn it, he fumed. Everything explainable. Every explanation possible. Tomorrow he’d talk to Regan in depth about Hardwick, and he’d also contact the NYPD; perhaps they had a file on him.

“May I please go home now, Inspector? I’m very tired.”

Livingston looked at his watch. It was 2:05 A.M. “Let’s wait a bit, shall we? I’d be happy to have someone fix you a cup of tea. And now I want to speak to Professor Whitcomb.”