“Send some flowers to the church,” she said. “When is the funeral?”

“This morning. Would you like orchids? McDonald has some lovely ones.”

But she shook her head. “Not orchids,” she said. “Anything else, but not orchids.”

I was a little surprised. The Cloisters orchids are famous. But Andy McDonald and I managed to do our best with the time and the flowers we had, and I myself took them to the church.

It was crowded that morning. It looked as though the whole district had come to see Don off on that last far journey. And both Hill and valley had rallied to Lydia’s support. Old Mr. Berry and Theodore Earle from the valley, Julian Stoddard and Tony from the Hill, were among the pallbearers. Audrey was not present, nor could I see Bill Sterling, but Lydia came alone, in dark clothes and with her head high. Then they carried in the casket, and the service began.

I thought there was a slight stir when Dr. Leland, reading the lesson, came to the line: “Behold, I shew you a mystery.” But his quiet voice went on: death was swallowed up in victory, the mortal become immortal. There was hope and another life. Many were in tears when it was over, but Lydia’s face was quiet.

They buried Don in the lovely Beverly cemetery where my father and mother lay; did it decently and with decorum. Then they went away, back to their houses and their comfortable lives. It was over. They had done the right thing. The amenities had been observed. Now, thank God, they could forget about him.

Probably they thought, if they thought about it at all—those first families of both the valley and the Hill—that everything was over. Bill Sterling was still free, and Don dead and buried. I know that I myself felt a sense of relief that day as Gus drove me home in Maud’s limousine; as though a page had been turned and the new one was fresh and clean. The hills, I remember, were beautiful as I drove back, the trees a tapestry of gold and red and green, and at a turn of the road I could see the river, a shining band of silver, remote and yet near. I had always loved the river.

Bessie was on the terrace when I came back. She looked sulky, but she gave me a cold smile.

“Been doing your Christian duty, I suppose,” she said. “Better stay out here awhile. The police are inside.”

“The police? What do they want?”

She pretended to yawn, but it was only a pretense. “How do I know? Reynolds says they are in the basement.”

Jim had left word for me to go down, and I found a half dozen men there, most of them strange. For now both the city and the county had stepped in: the county because now we had a murder, and the city because Jim had asked for help. The commissioner of police was there, the district attorney, a self-important individual whom I detested on sight, and two or three men from the homicide squad in town. One of them was a tall redheaded individual with a drawl. His name was Hopper, as we were all to have plenty of occasion to remember. They were standing at the bottom of the elevator shaft and Jim introduced them.