If Crick was here, the Aston Martin—Jury glanced back over his shoulder—belonged to—

“Lady Summerston, Crick. Has she come back then?”

“Indeed, sir. Do come in.”

Automatically, Jury’s gaze traveled up the endless staircase, since he had never seen Eleanor Summerston anywhere but in her suite of rooms up there.

Crick said, “She’ll be in the drawing room with Miss Flora, sir.”

And so she was. They were seated side by side, Lady Summerston with her hand on Flora’s shoulder, Flora with her own hands propping up her head.

Lady Summerston looked up in surprise and delight. “Superintendent Jury! Another terrible business,” she said, as if welcoming him to the “terrible business.” “Is there no end to the tragedy this poor house must endure?”

It was as if Watermeadows itself sat crumpled beside her, its head in its hands.

“I’m so sorry, Aunt Eleanor,” said Flora. One would think that she, the hapless tenant, had brought it all down on their heads.

And had she? Jury wondered.

“Oh, please, my dear. I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t know what to do; I don’t know—” Flora kept repeating this as she shook her head back and forth.

“Never mind. I’m sure Mr. Jury will set things right.”

Mr. Jury wasn’t. Thus, he was pleased if a little surprised to see Crick ushering Tom Brownell into the room.

Eleanor was up in a flash. “My dear Tom! How? Why? How did you ever get here? How did you hear—?” Finally she stopped asking herself questions and turned to Flora. “This is Tom Brownell, Flora—he’s an absolute lifesaver. Now I know we’ll be all right.”

Tom said, smiling slightly, “Not quite yet, Eleanor.”

Brownell must have felt every ounce of his success weighing him down, thought Jury. But his response did not dim Eleanor’s smile, nor cast a shadow across the face of Flora Flood. Jury held out his hand to Tom. “I think I agree with Lady Summerston. We’ll be all right. Nice to see you again, Tom.”

“Crick,” said Eleanor, “could we have some tea, please?”

As Crick bowed and departed, she went on: “Tom, how do you come to be here?”

“Your next-door neighbor called me to tell me—but that’s a long story,” said Tom. “I met Superintendent Jury here at the Old Success. In Cornwall. It turned out that my granddaughter was at Mr. Plant’s house seeing to his horse. She’s a farrier. She lives in Bedfordshire.”

“And what do police think, Tom?” She covered Flora’s hand with her own.

“Police in general? Or just me?”

“You’re not at odds, are you?” Eleanor looked from Tom to Jury and around the room as if there might be more policemen lurking.

Tom laughed briefly. “There are always odds, Eleanor.”

“But you believe Flora—”

“Eleanor, I don’t know anything beyond what Mr. Plant told me.”