Detective Inspector John Redfyre tucked his terrier under his right arm, struggling to keep the wriggling bundle of whipcord muscle in a half nelson. His door opened directly onto the cobbled lane leading down to the river, and even at this early hour on a Sunday morning, there was a good chance that there would be some energetic types out taking air. And anyone passing in front of Magnolia Cottage was fair game for a nasty nip from Snapper.

Jack Russells! Pathetically, Redfyre delivered the ultimatum every day—“One more ankle-chewing, one more escape, one more hysterical woof and you’re out, mate! I’ll replace you with a nice quiet Labrador.” The threat fell on deaf ears, and the energetic little dog grinned back, secure in his master’s love.

How do you explain to a dog bred on the desolate Yorkshire moors for the express purpose of chasing down and killing rats that he was now a city dog and should mind his manners? Particularly tricky when the city—this city—offered a seductive patchwork of wild green spaces. Grasses everywhere you looked, whether short-shaven lawns or unkempt wilderness lapping up against sober grey stone buildings. In just a few strides, Snapper’s morning walk took him from neat civic pavement into the riotous water meadows of Coe Fen, where a herd of cows grazed, providing milk for the local dairy. It gave Redfyre a quiet satisfaction that the rich milk he stirred into his morning porridge had travelled less than a mile to reach his doorstep. The cows would suffer no disturbance from his dog.

He checked that the dog lead Snapper so despised was coiled in the deep pocket of his mackintosh, ready for an emergency. He believed that the terrier had at last got the message that he was allowed to walk and run and cavort freely, only on condition that he responded at once to a command to come to heel.

There was no one about. Redfyre breathed in the fresh Sunday morning air. He relished that blissful moment after the winds had blown away the night’s stale air and before the maids of the town set about re-creating the sooty reek by lighting the kitchen fires. The sun was up and already gilding the creamy flowers of the magnolia in the graveyard opposite. The sight startled his senses awake and filled him with delight. Not English, the magnolia. Exotic. A recent import from China, or was it Japan? Out of place in a Saxon graveyard. But, by God! How could anyone not be stirred by the fleshy roundness of those blooms? As smooth as Aphrodite’s thigh. As far as he knew, their quality had not yet been expressed on canvas. Unknown to the Dutch masters, overlooked by Manet and Fantin-Latour. Even Sargent had confined himself to lilies and roses.

In his abstraction, he had relaxed his grip on Snapper.