Hawkins’s house was still structurally intact—and the only areas that showed fire damage were around the windows and door—but Zelda knew that the inside would be a mess of charred wood, twisted metal, melted plastic, glass and worse. She remembered the kitchen from her one brief visit. It had seemed very modern and high-tech to her, all brushed steel surfaces and professional cookware, which went hand in hand with the idea of Hawkins as a gourmet. She couldn’t have said for certain, but she didn’t think there had been a chip pan in sight.

What surprised her now was that there was still so much activity around the place. Though the fire engines must have been and gone, a fire inspector’s van was parked outside along with two police patrol cars. One uniformed officer stood on guard under the front porch, and as she passed, Zelda noticed a man in a white coverall walking out carrying a cardboard box, which he placed in the boot of an unmarked car. He paused to talk with another uniformed officer, who was sitting in one of the cars, before going back into the house again. Then a woman came out, also wearing a white coverall and carrying a cardboard box. Did they do this at every domestic fire scene? She could see one or two curtains twitching in the nearby houses.

Zelda didn’t want to be caught dawdling. They might think she was suspicious if they saw her watching them. She also wondered whether they had CCTV nearby, or someone noting down all passersby who showed an interest. But it was like a car crash; a person could hardly walk by without stopping for a peek at whatever was going on. So she allowed herself to stand for a few moments. Perhaps she was getting paranoid, or she had read too many spy novels, but she also kept an eye out for signs of anyone following her. She hadn’t seen anyone, but that didn’t mean no one was there. She was already starting to feel out of her depth in this sleuthing game.

A man came out of one of the houses just in front of her, gave her a quick glance, then crossed the road and went into Hawkins’s house. The policeman at the door seemed to know him. It looked to Zelda as if he had probably been questioning the neighbor across the street, and probably not for the first time, as it was nearly three days since the fire. That indicated to her that they might not be quite satisfied with the chip-pan theory.

Zelda started walking down the street and noticed a pub sign about a hundred yards ahead. She checked her watch and saw it was almost one o’clock. Lunchtime. Why not treat herself to a pub lunch and make a few discreet inquiries while she was there?

IF BLAYDON’S mansion wasn’t quite as large as Banks had expected, his extensive gardens certainly made up for it. Banks drove through the open wrought-iron gates in a high surrounding wall of dark stone. A gravel drive wound first through woods of ash, hazel, beech and yew trees, which formed a natural tunnel, then through carefully designed and cultivated gardens—a trellised arbor, a wisteria grove or rose garden here, and a gazebo there—leading ultimately past neatly trimmed topiary and imitation Greek and Roman statuary, complete with missing limbs and lichen stains, to a large pond scabbed with water lilies. At its center stood an elaborate fountain. Water sprayed in all directions from the mouths of cherubim and seraphim with puffy cheeks and curly hair. And was that a maze Banks glimpsed beyond the fountain?