“I wouldn’t call him their butler. He was their valet. He didn’t cook or nothing, but he helped around the house and the yard and he drove them around.”

“Did you know your grandfather?”

“I did. He died when I was fifteen but I knew him. He lived with us for a while towards the end.”

“Did he ever talk about the Carringtons?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much, but I guess he liked them enough … well, some of them.” He looks at me. “He loved the girl.”

“Katherine?”

“Yeah. Katherine.”

“What about Abigail?”

“Sure.”

“And Thomas Carrington?”

“Not his favorite. Wasn’t anyone’s favorite, as far as I could tell. The Carringtons were long gone when he talked to me about them, and like I said, he didn’t say much.”

“Why not?”

“It was hard for him …”

I decide to cut to the chase. “Mr. Whitlock, your grandfather was there the night Katherine disappeared.”

He closes his eyes. “Yes. He was there … Well, he said he was there.”

“He told the police that he drove Thomas Carrington and his daughter to the train station in Dover.”

“That’s what he told them.”

“Mr. Whitlock, did your grandfather ever talk to you about what really happened that night?”

There’s a change in him—a resignation. Like a weight is sliding off his chest.