Your brother was wearing a knitted cap and his dark blue parka. He must be older than I am, I thought, but still he looks younger and fitter. Still, I didn’t think he’d fight back. He never did in the old days.

He said: “Did you bring the money?”

I nodded. Harrington just stared at him with a look of hatred. Of course, I knew he’d be furious. A menial—an inferior—holding us to ransom like that over something that happened so long ago. And what did he have on us?

Still, Mousey, who cared? They’d both be dead by nine fifteen.

Chapter 3

3

November 4, 2005

By the time I got to the end of Dog Lane, it was already a quarter to nine. The porch light was on in front of my house, and I could see a figure in a blue overcoat standing by the front door. Relief made me reckless.

“Mr. Winter!” I called. “I’m so—”

He turned; and in the glow of the lamp, I saw a familiar profile. Not Mr. Winter, as I’d supposed, but the neat, sharp features of Dr. Devine, now suffused with triumph.

“I knew it!” he said as I approached. “I knew you couldn’t have moved those boards without the aid of an accomplice. What are you up to now, eh? And how did you talk him into it?”

I sighed and took out the front-door key. “Not now, please, Devine,” I said. “I’ve had a very tiring day. I’ve been helping Eric sort out some of poor Margery’s things.”

The nose twitched. “Ah, yes,” said Devine. “I expect the fellow’s upset.”

I thought his voice was rather cold—for reasons that have more to do with ambition than personality, Dr. Devine and Eric Scoones have never been the best of friends. Now his lack of sympathy for a grieving colleague reminded me of why I disliked the man.

I opened the door, and he followed me, unasked, into the front hall. That, I thought, was bordering on rude, and rudeness, whatever his other faults, was not Devine’s modus operandi—but for the moment, I refrained from comment. He was not in the habit of making calls, and I guessed he had a reason, which he would doubtless divulge, given time.

The central heating hadn’t come on, and the house smelled vaguely damp. I took off my coat, lit the fire, turned—then saw Devine, still by the door, holding a piece of paper.

“This was in your letter box,” he said. “It looks like a note of some kind.”