I picked up a copy of the other picture as well, showing the Greenfields at the Lodge, unscarred and not yet embarked on murder. They were standing by the lake, looking over the shoulder of the photographer at the log house that the young and carefree Greenfield had helped his friend Charles build.

“The sun was red,” I murmured.

“Sorry?”

“During the fire. Everything was a peculiar colour from the smoke and ashes, and it was terrifying, with the sun a red glow in the sky and the earth shaking and the sound of explosions. But my father came back then and he explained it to me, told me that the booms were just the firemen removing houses so there wouldn't be anything for the fire to burn and it would go out. I understood what he was saying, and when he told me it would be all right, I believed him.”

“Your parents were good people,” he said. And then he added the most perfect thing anyone has ever said to me. “They would be proud of you.”

Not that I believed him, of course. Instead I gave voice to the remnants of my guilt. “If I'd told my mother about seeing Greenfield that day, if I'd said something, I might have saved them.”

“I think not. Greenfield was already set on his course. Had you told your mother that you had seen him, it might have caused an argument between your parents, and at most a resolution to confront Greenfield when they returned to the city, but it would not have interrupted the family's progress to the lake. Only Greenfield himself could have done that.”

And I could picture it, clearly: Mother's indignation that Father was meeting the man; a family's final minutes tainted by recrimination and regret; the motorcar setting off down the road . . .

“You would not have changed a thing,” Holmes said firmly. This time, I believed him.

I changed out of my day-clothes and settled into a soft bed that seemed to tremble and sway with my tiredness, but my eyes would not close. I looked at the mezuzah, lying still on the bed-stand, and found myself saying, “Holmes, would you mind awfully if we didn't leave right away? I'd like to see my family's graves, and explore the area a little.”

“No, I do not mind spending more days here. We've been in California for a week and a half, and I don't believe I've set eyes on a redwood tree.”

“And it would also allow you to finish your Paganini research.”

“My—ah, yes, my Paganini research.”

“There is no research project, is there, Holmes?”

“Not as such, no,” he admitted. The bed's sway was magnified briefly as he settled in beside me. I turned to him, closing my eyes with the pleasure of simple human touch.

“Don't let me forget,” he said. “I must be downstairs at nine o'clock for breakfast with Mr Garcia and the Irregulars.”