“The girl was taken into protective custody,” said Nightingale. “Even old Murville could sense there was something not quite right about her.” He looked quickly toward the doors. “Have you finished?” he asked.

I said I had, and Nightingale grabbed the now empty plate and put it back in front of himself just in time for Molly to come drifting into the dining room, pushing the sweets cart. As she cleared the plates, she gave Nightingale a distinctly suspicious look. But she couldn’t prove anything.

She scowled at us and we smiled back.

“Very nice,” I said.

Molly laid out a custard tart and, with one last suspicious look aimed at me, silently left the dining room.

“What happened to the girl?” I asked as I served up the tart.

“She was brought here and examined,” said Nightingale. “And found to be too abnormal to be fostered …”

“Or put into a workhouse,” I said. Under a thick layer of nutmeg, the custard was just as good as that of the Patisserie Valerie. I wondered if I could smuggle some out for Simone. Or, better yet, smuggle her in for dinner.

“It may put your mind at rest to know that we had an agreement with Corum’s Foundling Hospital,” said Nightingale. “She would have been placed there but for the unfortunate fact that once allowed into the Folly, she would not allow herself to be taken out.”

From under the table I could hear Toby looking for the last of the leftovers.

“This is Molly we’re talking about,” I said.

“So she slept in the scullery and was raised by the staff,” he said.

I helped myself to another piece of tart.

“Postmartin was right,” said Nightingale. “I let myself get too comfortable. And while I lived here with Molly the world continued on without me.”

I WAS stuffed, but I forced myself over to the coach house to do some data entry. Once there I was irresistibly drawn to the sofa and Arsenal v. Tottenham. It was going badly for Spurs when my phone rang and a strange voice said, “Hello, Peter.”

I checked the caller ID. “Is that you, Leslie?”

I heard a rasping breathy sound. “No,” said Leslie. “It’s Darth Vader.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but I couldn’t help myself.

“It’s better than Stephen Hawking,” she said. It sounded like she was trying to talk with a plastic bottle in her mouth, and I got the strong impression that it was painful to do.

“You were in London for an operation,” I said. “You could have told me.”

“They didn’t know if it would work,” she said.

“Did it?”

“I’m talking, aren’t I,” said Leslie. “It bloody hurts, though.”

“Want to go back to text?”

“No,” she said. “Sick of typing. Have you checked your cases on HOLMES yet?”

“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve been doing door-to-door.”