Montgomery Street was lined by maples and haphazard small-town architecture, mainly tan brick houses built close to the street. Two blocks down the right side was a lawn several acres deep with a straight drive running between a quarter mile of parallel oaks. I turned, driving across their shadows until I spotted the white frame house at the end, concealed by more oaks. When I finally parked, I saw that the house was three antebellum stories. Its wide, shady porch had stairs at both ends, and in one corner two empty gliders hung facing each other. Five whitewashed steps rose to it between lilacs a soft mauve color. The grounds were still save for a single orange butterfly jittering among the lilacs. I went to the front door and knocked.

After a moment there were footsteps on the other side of the door. It was opened by an old man with eyes a shocking, opalescent gray.

“Yes?” he demanded.

“Mr. Channing?” He nodded. “I’m Adam Shaw, a lawyer from Birmingham. If it’s all right, I’d like a moment of your time.”

“Without calling? What about?”

“The Grangeville case, partly.”

His eyes glinted. “I’ve talked about that once in forty years, and not to a stranger.” He poised to slam the door.

“Also about Lydia Cantwell,” I added quickly. “You saw she was murdered?”

His hand stopped. “Go on.”

“Just that it may have something to do with your case.”

“What’s your interest in Lydia?”

“I represent Henry Cantwell. The husband.”

I looked past him as he scrutinized me. Through the hallway was a dark living room: two chairs, a lamp, and a standing clock, all antiques, as neatly arranged as if no one lived there. There was something deadly about it: Channing lived in a museum. The clock ticked behind him.

“I’ll listen,” he said at last and stepped onto the porch, slamming the door. “Out here.”

He pointed toward the two gliders, moving toward the far one. He was a tall man and his walk, straight and gliding, held the last vestige of youthful grace. But his vulpine face was ravaged. Two red scrapes on his cheek looked like skin cancer, with a white mark beneath them where more had been removed. Lank, white-yellow hair hung lifelessly over his forehead and to his collar in back. In his linen suit, he looked like a well-bred version of the whittling men, in worse health. I wondered who the suit was for.

“Speak up,” he said harshly.

“I’m sorry. I was wondering if Mrs. Cantwell used to live here.”

His eyes riveted me, as though he knew of their effect and used it. “She did,” he said finally. “When she was Lydia Hargrave. I bought the place after her mother died. She didn’t want it.”