I did not go home right away. Instead, I went to Winter’s house. That sense of coming together, of tumblers dropping into place, was getting stronger all the time. Eric’s words had disturbed me. His belief that Harry was guilty had been upsetting enough, but more so was the fact that he had willfully destroyed evidence—evidence that might have helped to reinstate Harry’s memory. My only hope was that Gloria might have seen something. Could it be that, in cleaning the house, she had looked into Harry’s box? Had she mentioned it to her son? And could all this be connected with the death of Charlie Nutter?

The lights were on in Winter’s house. I opened the gate and knocked on the door. After a moment, it opened, and Gloria’s face appeared in the gap. She looked both angry and a little harassed—of course, I knew her aversion to juvenile trick-or-treaters.

“Mrs. Winter, good evening—”

“What?” she said. “I’m not buying anything, and you’re too bloody old for treats.” Then she looked again, and said: “Mr. Straitley? From the Grammar School?”

I nodded. “Hello, Gloria.”

“Oh.” She seemed to hesitate. “Come in.” I followed her into the hall, a shrine to a number of china dogs. “What do you want, Mr. Straitley?”

“I wondered if I might have a word with your son.”

Now she was looking confused. She said: “Why? What’s he done now?”

I explained that Gloria’s son had been helping me with my computer skills. “Outside his other duties, of course.”

Gloria looked no less confused. “What duties? You mean at the school?”

And now I suddenly realized that Gloria had no idea where her son worked, or what he did. Had he never told her? Was he ashamed of his menial role?

I said: “We met at the Scholar. I happened to mention the challenges of being a veteran Master, faced with the march of Progress in all its electronic forms. He offered to give me a helping hand in embracing information technology.”

Gloria seemed to relax at that. She had always had a sharp tongue, but now everything about her was sharp: her nose; her chin; her voice; and, of course, those dark and still-expressive eyes.

“Oh yes, the Scholar,” she said. “He sometimes goes there after work. All hours they keep him at that bloody hospital.”

I made no comment at that, but filed away the information for later. I knew my coconspirator enjoyed reinventing himself online, but lying to his mother seemed to be a different category of reinvention. Once more, I reminded myself that I knew very little about him, except for what he has told me—which may or may not be the truth—

“Anyway, he’s out,” she said. “What did you want him for anyway?”