A woman Carmen thought looked familiar stepped forward from behind the little hut and spoke to the stallholder in German. Then she turned to them. “You have bought so much! Here, please accept this with our compliments.”

She handed Oke a vintage car, which he took with thanks and immediately gave to Carmen.

“Ooh,” said Carmen. “I can put it in the window of the shop with a mouse in it!”

Oke smiled as the woman leaned forward.

“Yes! You work in the shop,” she said, and Carmen recognized her as the woman who’d come in looking for Mr. McCredie. “Did you give him my card? He has not called me.”

She had quite a direct way of speaking.

“Um, yes, I did,” said Carmen. “I’m sorry. He didn’t . . . Can I ask what it’s about?”

“We were clearing out an attic and discovered some letters. The return address is . . . well, it is there. I should like to speak to him. Very much.”

She said something to the man in rapid German, and he looked startled, then carried on wrapping the toys.

“We are here until Christmas and then—poof—we are gone. So. Please. If he does not want to phone, we are here. Every day. Wait.”

She turned back into the little hut and brought out another tiny little shape, exquisitely carved in wrought wood. It was a circle, quartered by a cross, smooth and timeless.

“Please give him this. For his tree. With our warmest wishes.”

“Thank you,” said Carmen, surprised, and, laden with bags, they retreated from the noise and cacophony of the fair. She explained the situation to Oke.

“What do you think it is?” said Oke.

“Goodness! I don’t know,” said Carmen. “I can’t imagine Mr. McCredie having any dark secret love children or anything like that. I think he’s barely left the house he was born in his whole life. He likes books more than people. I’ll tell him. Do you like trees more than people?”

“Some,” said Oke. “You know where you are with a tree. Except for elms. They’re bastards.”

Carmen was startled to hear him swear. “How?”

“Oh, try anything and they just die on you. Hi, elm, how you doing? . . . SPLAT!”

He mimed the tree falling over and she giggled.

“You look like a tree. You’ve chosen the right profession.”

“Because of my twiglike arms and legs? I know,” he said, undaunted. “People say that all the time.”

“Well, better than . . . being a cactus specialist.”

“That’s true.”

“Or a bonsai.”

He grinned. “Ooh, bonsai are a whole other thing.”

They had wandered off the main drag and up the steps of the National Gallery. The screaming was still ringing in their ears.

“Well, I did all the consumerism, and I saw somebody throw up outside the Tilt-A-Whirl,” said Oke. “Will that do?”