As soon as Melrose had set his solicitor straight, and Ruthven had seen him to his car where he had a driver waiting, Jury left Agatha to Burke’s Peerage and Gerrard and went into the library.

“That argument—assuming there was one—Flora Flood had with her husband before she shot him—”

“She didn’t do it.”

Jury sighed. “All right. What I’m wondering is what Bub overheard but is denying, and whether maybe another kid can get it out of him.”

“The only kid I know is Gerrard.”

“That’s what I mean. He’s clever.”

“Too clever by half.”

“Take him to Watermeadows, why don’t you, while Flora Flood is in London for a couple days.”

“You mean now?”

Jury nodded. Then he told Melrose about his Paris visit and what Gabrielle Belrose had said about Manon and Gerald Summerston.

“My Lord! That certainly puts a different face upon things, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed.”

“But Bryher? She comes to England and goes to Bryher? You think it had something to do with the baby?”

“God knows something had to do with the baby. I’m going to Bryher tomorrow. You can go with me. You’d be helpful in reducing the police presence.”

“Why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?”

“Because it isn’t?” Jury smiled. “Oh, come on, you’re really good with children.”

“What? Are you mad? They can’t stand me. Unless I’m part of their little plot. Where do you think all of this is leading?”

“I’d say to Tony Servino.”

Melrose looked surprised. “Servino?”

“From what we’ve heard about Gerald Summerston, far from being the soul of kindness, I’d say he needed a fixer.”

Following Jury’s departure, Melrose herded Gerrard into the Bentley and they set off for Watermeadows, Gerrard protesting this excursion to meet “some little kid.”

“You’re ‘some little kid’ too, so stop complaining.” Melrose braked to avoid hitting a cow that didn’t seem to want to leave the road.

“You nearly hit that cow, Mel; watch your driving.”

“I’m close to nearly hitting you, Gerrard. Watch your talk.”

Watermeadows brought forth numerous wows from Gerrard, and the comment that it was even better than Ardry End.

“Except,” said Melrose getting out of the car, “you’re not inheriting it. Come on.”

It was the cook who answered the door, her apron floured and smeared with chocolate, and who informed Melrose that Miss Flora had gone to London, but that yes, little Bub was there, upstairs in his room. “Just run on up,” she said to Gerrard.

“Run on up” struck Melrose as a rather careless direction, since the cook didn’t know what articles along the way Gerrard might stick under his shirt—nor did Gerrard show any propensity to run to meet Bub. “Third room on the left,” said the cook, taking his hesitation as indication he didn’t know where to run to.