“Do you remember that friend of your mother, the one who nursed Gerald Summerston for a while before he died? Manon Vinet?” He told her what had happened.

“She’s dead?”

He nodded. “I’m trying to work out why she was on the island. Did Daisy ever talk to you about her?”

She shook her head as Aggrieved moved from oats to hay. “Not much. I remember she said something about wanting to help her. Mum always loved Bryher … Sorry, Grandad.”

She turned upon her grandfather the same concerned look she’d given to the horse. That, thought Jury, was probably a high compliment. Then she added, “Look, let’s go where we can sit down. Mr. Blodgett told me I could always use his Florida room.” That made her smile.

The three of them made their way to the hermitage and the sunporch Blodgett had added to the little stone structure. He had built it with his own hands, furnished it with wicker stuff that Trueblood had picked up at auction. With the sun high in the sky, it was pleasant.

After they sat down on the love seat and rocking chair, Tom asked her, “Help her how?”

“I don’t know, but they had long conversations about something.”

Tom said, thoughtfully, “I wonder if she could have had anything to do with your mother’s death.”

“Mum committed suicide.”

“No, she didn’t. Not Daisy.”

“You don’t know that, Grandad.”

“But I do.”

“You still think you can solve it, don’t you?” Sydney turned on him with a force that astonished Jury. “You think you can save her. You just can’t imagine you failed this time. Well, you did! She’s dead!” But the look on Tom Brownell’s face stopped her cold and she said, contritely, “I’m sorry, Grandad. I know how hard it was for you. But I think you just don’t want to believe it.”

This struck Jury as a complete misreading of Tom Brownell, to say nothing of its being a strangely defensive reaction. The man might not have wanted to believe his daughter killed herself, but that wouldn’t have stood in the way of his objective judgment.

Jury heard a “Hullo” and saw Melrose Plant coming from the house towards the hermitage. “What are you all doing in the Florida room?” asked Melrose, then to Sydney, said, “I got the salve.” He held up the small package.

“Aggrieved might not even need it. He’s so much better.”

Melrose looked toward the barn. The horse was now outside, munching grass. “You’re a wonder-worker, Sydney.”

Jury turned to Tom. “Here’s the man after your own heart, Tom, the ex-Earl of Ardry.”

“The man who jettisoned his titles? I’m delighted to meet you.”

“Well, I have met you, Mr. Brownell.”

“Where did we meet?”

“Right here.” Melrose pulled a small book from his coat pocket. It was called quite simply Brownell.