I ignored him and opened the door. I supposed the man was right, but I had no time to argue the point. I had no idea how long Winter would wait for me on the canal bridge. But whatever he knew, I wanted to hear, regardless of those tumblers dropping relentlessly in my head.

A firework rose from Malbry Park like flowers from a magician’s hat: a green chrysanthemum; then a blue. A second later, I heard the sound; that faint, percussive popping. What did Winter have to say? Why had he suggested the bridge? And what did he mean, quoting Sophocles when he knew I was desperate for answers?

I left Devine in the doorway, not even pausing to lock the door. He started to call after me—

“Straitley! Don’t be a damn fool! Straitley! I need to talk to you!”

But there was no time to hear him now. All I could think of was Winter, whose mother had cared for Margery Scoones, and Eric, who had burned Harry’s box. Could Eric have known something, back then, that might have affected the trial? Could he now, for the sake of ambition, be hiding something that could incriminate Johnny Harrington?

Reaching Dog Lane, I started to run, ignoring Devine’s cries of protest. Another hatful of flowers bloomed, and I forced myself to increase the pace. This is my favorite time of year—this time of fire and falling leaves—and with my heart in its fragile state, I cannot be sure if I will see another.

But tonight was no time for fireworks. Tonight there was no time for doubt; or friendships; or nostalgia. Tonight, I needed answers. Tonight was a night for dark thoughts, dark deeds; and memories of lost boys—Scoones and Straits, and Colin Knight; and Charlie Nutter, who was one of ours, and Lee Bagshot, who was not; all of them victims, sacrificed to the spirit of dark, lonely water.

Chapter 4

4

November 4, 2005, 9:03 p.m.

I ran from Dog Lane to the canal. Well, I did my best to run. In fact, I probably looked and sounded like one of those zombies from the old films: wheezing and shambling along the canal side in the darkness.

If there were ghosts, I told myself, then surely this was where they should be. Perhaps the ghost of Lee Bagshot—drowned, and whose injuries, according to the coroner, might have been the result of a blow, or might have simply been caused by the fall. And Charlie Nutter, also drowned, albeit in three feet of water. And now something inside me protested, in the voice of Lady Bracknell: To lose one boy by drowning may be considered a misfortune. To lose two boys, however, begins to look like—

Murder?