Darcy and I exchanged a smile. Belinda chatted gaily all the way up to London, trying out plans and schemes to get herself invited to a yacht on the Med or at least a good house party in the country.

“That girl will wind up in trouble if she’s not careful,” Darcy said after we had dropped her off at her mews cottage.

“I think she’s already been in plenty of trouble. She rather enjoys it,” I said.

“You know what I mean. She’s going the way of your mother.”

“My mother seems to have enjoyed her life,” I replied. “You can drop me off at the Underground station if you like, and I can make my own way to my grandfather’s house.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

I shook my head. “He’d be embarrassed. It’s better that I go alone.”

He came around to open the car door for me. “Georgie, don’t suggest he come to Kingsdowne. Not a good idea.”

“You don’t think my grandfather capable of solving a murder?”

“I just don’t see . . .” he started then broke off. I knew what he was suggesting. He didn’t see how I could introduce my grandfather—certainly not as a relative. Not as a servant. Not as a policeman. I did see his point. “Maybe he could stay at the inn in the village.”

Darcy shook his head before giving me a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll meet you at four,” he said.

“Good luck,” I called after him as he drove off. Then I went down the steps into the Underground station for the first leg of my journey out to Essex. My grandfather lived in a semi-detached house in an outer suburb. It was a very ordinary street of matching houses and pocket handkerchief–size front gardens, but he was well content with it (my mother having bought him the house during the time of her first success on the stage). As I opened the gate of number twenty-two and walked past the gnomes in the front garden, my heart did a little skip of anticipation. I realized that more than anything, I just wanted to see him. I knocked on the door and heard his voice growling, “’Old yer ’orses. I’m comin’.”

The door opened, and a big smile spread across his old, Cockney face. “Well, strike me pink,” he said. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes! Come on in, ducks, and give yer old granddad a big hug.”

I did so, feeling the comforting roughness of his cheek and the familiar smell of carbolic soap and baby powder.

“It’s lovely to see you, Granddad,” I said. “How are you?”