Jury slowed to a stop as Tom called out, “Ridge. Why’re you here at this godforsasken hour?”

“Just to check on things. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Where’s Sydney?”

“Up at the house. She was here for a few minutes. Saw my truck and thought something was up with one of the horses.”

“But everything’s okay?”

“Absolutely.”

Tom said goodnight and raised the car window, and they drove on. “I don’t much care for it that he’s over here whenever he feels like it.”

“Something to do with Sydney?” said Jury.

“A lot to do with Sydney, if you ask me.”

Jury didn’t question him. In another two minutes they were at the front door.

“Front door” was an inadequate description of this Scarlett O’Hara entrance of vermillion, a wood one was not used to seeing, certainly not in a door. Jury had picked up his wood-knowledge from a forensic botanist in the art squad who had inspected a picture frame for him.

“Magnificent house, Tom.”

“I hate it. All show, no substance.”

Jury had never thought of any house as “substantive.” But why not? Home meant substance to many people.

The door was opened by a small, sad-seeming maid who looked fallen as a leaf—drifted. Strewn, rather than just standing there. Where had this strange image come from?

From the cathedral. Standing in the square with the trees blowing in the crosswind that had chilled them.

“I’m sorry, Sadie,” said Tom, “to drag you out here. I forgot my key.”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, sir; I was in the kitchen anyway, heating up milk for cocoa. Would you care for some? Or tea?”

“No, no, thank you, Sadie. We’ll just sit in the study for a while. Never mind about us.”

It looked as if she would mind all over the place; it looked as if she could think of nothing she’d rather do than mind Tom Brownell. But she drifted off, leaf-like.

They went into a fire-warmed room with pale blue walls and soft leather chairs. Jury sat down as Tom went to a drinks table and came back with two whiskies.

“Daisy died of an overdose, I understand. Of what?”

“Pain meds. I never could figure out why she had the tablets.”

“Tablets. You could hardly overdose on those accidentally. You’d have to take too many to do the job.”

“There were also traces of an antidepressant.”

“What was she depressed about?”

“Her marriage? Dan Cooke wasn’t much of a husband. I don’t think it ever got through to him that he’d married the girl.” Tom laughed, bitterly.

“Was he there in the house? I mean when she took—?”

“No. That’s probably true, given he spent most of his weekends in the city and the boatman hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t been ferried over from St. Mary’s.” Tom paused. “You’re not thinking he killed her?”