Heloise could hear rock ’n’ roll music playing somewhere in the house, an odd choice of soundtrack for the setting. She looked around the hall. There was a big open fireplace that didn’t look as if it had ever been used, and a broad staircase curved its way up to the second floor. Framed photographs of the family and friends of the residents hung on the wall along the stairs as evidence of their famous circle of acquaintances. Heloise recognized a former Copenhagen mayor, two aging tennis stars, Tony Blair, an American music producer complete with diamond necklaces and gold teeth, and a long list of Danish jet set types whose main achievement in life was being born to the right parents.

Heloise walked a few steps up the stairs and took a closer look at one of the pictures. She recognized Christoffer Mossing from the news coverage, although he was at least ten years younger in the picture than he had been at the time of his death. He was wearing an American mortarboard with a tassel, and champagne flowed from the bottle he was holding up in triumph to the photographer.

The young housekeeper cleared her throat behind her. “It’s this way,” she said.

Heloise followed her through two spacious connecting living rooms furnished with white sofas and armchairs upholstered in brandy-colored leather. Walls and bookcases were decorated with maritime motifs, horse racing cups, and other collector’s items. The music grew louder as they approached an open set of double doors that led to a large conservatory at the back of the house and overlooking the Øresund Strait.

A woman was standing in there. She wore a cap and a white wrap dress and was busy deadheading a New Dawn rosebush with a small pair of gold secateurs as a loud, squealing guitar solo made the windows in the conservatory rattle.

The woman turned to Heloise with a smile. “Hello.”

“Hi!” Heloise had to raise her voice to drown out the music. She stuck out a hand and introduced herself. “Cool music. Who is playing?”

Ellen Mossing stared at her as though Heloise had just asked her which planet they were on. “Why, Led Zeppelin, of course. Do you really not know them?”

Heloise nodded while she thought about it. “It’s some LSD-type band, yes?”

Ellen laughed—a bright, silvery laughter—and Heloise warmed to her instinctively. Mrs. Mossing went over to the old record player in the corner and turned down the volume. Then she addressed the housekeeper.

“Noy, may we have some coffee, please? Or perhaps you prefer tea?” She looked at Heloise.

“No, coffee is fine, thank you.”

“Sometimes I fear I drink too much coffee. Every now and then it causes my pulse to spike. It feels dreadful. But it’s pretty much the only vice I’ve left, so to hell with it.” She winked conspiratorially at Heloise, as though she had just revealed some naughty secret about herself.