'Yeah. Outside the cave there's a long brick corridor with wal hangings that give the history. I was taking pictures, so I didn't read them. Ted did.'

She rechecked her glass, found it stil empty.

'Just down the road, there's an elaborate English manor caled Medmenham Abbey. The place was built by twelfth-century Cistercian monks, but Dashwood bought and renovated it to use as a country getaway. Gothic wals, crumbling entrance with engraved motto arching above.'

She said this in a breathy voice, moving her hand in a semicircle above her head. Anne is a real estate agent and sometimes describes things in Realtorese.

'What did the motto say?'

'Damned if I know.'

Coffee arrived. We added cream, stirred.

'After our phone conversation the other day, I kept thinking about this guy Dashwood.'

'The name Dashwood is not uncommon.'

'How common is it?'

'I can't quote numbers.'

'Do you know anyone named Dashwood?'

'No.'

'Uncommon enough.'

It was hard to maneuver around that.

'Francis Dashwood lived two hundred and fifty years ago.'

She was in midshrug when my cel phone rang. I clicked on quickly, apologizing with a grimace to the other patrons. While I find cel phones in restaurants the height of rudeness, I hadn't wanted to chance missing Lucy Crowe's cal.

It was the sheriff. I talked as I hurried outside. She listened without interrupting.

'That's good enough for a warrant.'

'What if this asshole stil won't issue?'

'I'm going to drop by Battle's house right now. If he stonewals, I'l think of something.'

When I returned to the table, Anne had ordered another glass of Chardonnay and a stack of photos had appeared. I spent the next twenty minutes admiring shots of Westminster, Buckingham Palace, the Tower, the Bridge, and every museum in greater London.

It was almost eleven when I puled in at Sharon Hal. As I swung around the Annex, the headlights picked up a large brown envelope on my front stoop. I parked in back, cut the engine, and cracked a window.

Only crickets and traffic noises on Queens Road.

I sprinted to the back door and slipped inside. Again, I listened, wishing Boyd were with me.

Nothing cut the silence but the whir of the refrigerator, the hammering of Gran's mantel clock.

I was about to cal Birdie when he appeared in the doorway, stretching first one hind leg, then the other.

'Was someone here, Bird?'

He sat and gazed at me with round yelow eyes. Then he licked a forepaw, dragged it across his right ear, repeated the maneuver.

'Obviously you're not worried about intruders.'

I crossed to the living room, put my ear to the door, then stepped back and turned the knob. Birdie observed from the hal. No sign of any person. I took the package inside and locked the door behind me.

Birdie watched politely.