As he peered, he was taken aback by a flash of colour passing across his field of vision. Lavender? Purple? He blinked and the figure—he was sure it had been a figure—passed back again with the same unnatural sideways motion. Stalking back and forth. At the same moment, he became aware of a musical sound. Singing? Well, why not? The city was full of glee clubs. Every college had one. He’d sung baritone himself with the King’s Minstrels during his college years, and with the Clippers Barber Shop Quartet since he’d been back in Cambridge. He knew most of the other amateur groups and was aware that they were quite likely to pop up on the slightest pretext to serenade someone or other, and usually in eye-catching surroundings with a photographer present to record the spontaneous outpouring. There was St. Cecilia’s feast day in November, St. Nicholas in December, the first day of May on Clare Bridge—why not the second Sunday of Easter term in the master’s garden in full springtime fig? Intrigued, he put his ear to the keyhole. What he was hearing was not a Sunday hymn, nor yet the old English madrigal the setting would have prompted Redfyre to offer up in praise of Nature. He would have launched heartily into “Flora Gave Me Fairest Flowers” or “Banks of Green Willow.” But this young-sounding solo female singer was looking to a more exotic climate for her inspiration.

He recognised the tune from the first six notes. It was very near the top of his own stack of gramophone records. It was the latest hit he’d bought, along with the sheet music, at Millers music shop in Sidney Street. He’d been entranced by the rhythms and had played it many times, singing along, learning the words. Puzzled, Redfyre wondered why a solitary young woman would be dancing the tango in a purple dress in a back garden, singing—and in Spanish, too—the sensuous words of “Mi noche triste.”

His ridiculous posture, louting about at a keyhole like a badly trained butler or a third-rate private eye, embarrassed him. This questionable behaviour, even if unobserved, was untenable. He shot upright in confusion, but his inquisitive nature, which he countenanced as “professional spirit of enquiry,” won out over discretion. Looking about him, he spotted, lying on its side, a stout water butt he assumed had been overturned and emptied by his squad in the morning’s meticulous search of the site for evidence. He dragged it over to the wall and climbed on top, remembering to clear his throat loudly in warning of his presence as he made the ascent.

Sticking his head and shoulders boldly over the rim of the wall he belted out his version of the song:

“Percanta!” he growled down to her, catching her attention with his gravelly baritone.

Que me amuraste

En lo mejor de mi vida,

Dejandome el alma herida