Probably not Levi, an infant during the fire, only nine at the crash. And possibly not me—I had, after all, lived unmolested in England all those years. But when I grew up and married the world's most ruthlessly efficient detective, it must have caused my father's old friend many sleepless nights. And with the codicil of the will drawing near its conclusion, with it would go twenty years of enforced isolation from snooping strangers—a new owner would surely take the jungle to the ground, and below. And then in January, when I turned with that efficient detective towards California, would have been the final straw—my presence here couldn't be risked.

So, had Greenfield seen the entire family when we stopped at Serra Beach, and cut the brake line nonetheless? Or had he seen only the motor, after Father had dropped the three of us at the café, with none but its driver walking away?

I sat very still, scowling unseeing at the soap-dish. There was something in that thought, a presence in the back of my mind very like that which had pushed at me beside the lake the other morning at dawn, something (They died . . .) that I was not seeing.

(Something . . .)

But Long's voice broke into my mental search and I lost the train of thought.

“My father was not happy with the idea of concealing the box, but he did so, because he trusted Charles Russell.”

Yes: After the fire, the relationship between my father and him had changed, as if something (something was there waiting to be noticed something was—but no, I had lost it again) . . . as if some event had forced a degree of distance in their former intimacy and mutual respect.

I pulled the plug and dressed, in trousers and a clean shirt—no need to appear as an heiress today. When I joined them, Long was just leaving, as his assistant needed to be away during the afternoon and he did not like to close the bookstore unless it was necessary.

“I am very willing to stay and help with anything,” he offered, but Holmes shook his head.

“I shall bring some copies of the Greenfield photograph by your shop. If you would care to distribute them throughout Chinatown, that would be a great assistance.”

While Holmes walked Mr Long to the door, I picked up a rather dried-looking sandwich and ate it hungrily, washing it down with tepid coffee. Why was it, I reflected, that when one's appetite did return, there never seemed to be anything the least bit interesting to eat?