“Regan, I don’t know why you didn’t have me order an extra photo of you for your parents. I’m sure they would love one.”

“Oh, Veronica, they have plenty of pictures of me. Being their first and only child, they recorded every event in my life, no matter how insignificant.”

“Oh, how I would have loved to have had a child,” Veronica sighed. A look of genuine sadness was evident on her face.

Glancing at her, Regan felt a stab of pain in sympathy. Veronica always kept up such a cheerful front that Regan never really entertained the thought that she had probably known plenty of disappointment in her life.

“However,” Veronica continued, “since Sir Gilbert’s first marriage of over fifty years did not produce an heir, I’ve sometimes reflected on the possibility that he was firing blanks.”

Good old Veronica, Regan thought. Back to your old self in no time.

At the librarian’s desk, the poet, a little man who looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy with black glasses, white button-down shirt, Bermuda shorts, black ankle socks and wing-tip shoes, began to address the group.

“From the time I was very young,” Byron Frost proclaimed in a nasal voice, “I always liked to write poetry. My fifth-grade teacher got us started by having us write haikus. Does everyone know what a haiku is?”

“It’s Japanese,” Veronica responded. “It’s a three-line poem with five syllables in the first and third lines and seven in the second. And it doesn’t rhyme!”

“Yes, that’s right. And it takes discipline. Before the end of class we’re each going to write one. But I want to start off by saying that you should write about what you know or what you feel strongly about. For example, I wrote an ode to my lovely wife Georgette, which I will recite for you right now.” He took off his glasses, folded his hands in a reverential manner, and lovingly looked over at a woman who Regan guessed had to be Mrs. Frost. “Georgette, my rare love ...”

The lovely Mrs. Frost sat enthralled listening to her husband. As Regan watched her she was reminded of what Claire had said about Athena being mesmerized by Philip’s poetry readings. The scene of Philip saying to her years ago, “It’s one of the hazards of being an heiress . . . she’ll be back . . .” kept replaying itself in Regan’s mind. And now the Inspector was asking again if she thought there had been anything between Philip and Athena. Her body was found in the woods next to the Exner property. Regan realized her mind was darting between Oxford and Greece. Maybe the faxes will be here when we get back to the room, she thought. I need something tangible.

“Does anyone here have any poems that they would like to recite?” the emotionally spent Byron Frost asked of the flock.