Kate looked as if she was ready to argue but said nothing. It was late and Dalgliesh knew that they were all tired. It was time to set out the programme for the next day. He and Kate would drive to London to see what evidence could be obtained from Rhoda Gradwyn’s house in the City. Benton and DC Warren would remain at the Manor. Dalgliesh had deferred seeing Robin Boyton in the hope that, by tomorrow, he would have calmed down and be ready to co-operate. The priorities were for Benton, with DC Warren, to interview Boyton, if possible to trace the car seen parked near the Cheverell Stones, to liaise with the scene-of-crime officers, who were expected to finish their work by midday, and to maintain a police presence at the Manor and ensure that the security guards employed by Mr. Chandler-Powell kept clear of the scene. Dr. Glenister’s report on the post-mortem was expected by midday, and Benton would ring Dalgliesh as soon as this had been received. Apart from these tasks, he would of course use his initiative in deciding whether any of the suspects should be questioned again.

It was nearly midnight before Benton carried the three wineglasses into the kitchen to wash, and he and Kate set out to make their way back through the sweet-smelling rain-washed darkness to Wisteria House.

BOOK THREE

BOOK THREE

16–18 December
London, Dorset, Midlands, Dorset

Chapter 1

1

Dalgliesh and Kate left Stoke Cheverell before six o’clock, an early start planned partly because of Dalgliesh’s strong dislike of getting tangled in the heavy morning traffic, but also because he needed the extra time in London. There were papers on which he had been working to be delivered to the Yard, a confidential draft report requiring his comments to be collected, and a note to be left on his secretary’s desk. This done, he and Kate drove in silence through the almost empty streets.

For Dalgliesh, as for many, the early hours of Sunday morning in the City held a particular appeal. For five weekdays, the air pulsates with energy so that one can believe that its great wealth is being physically hammered out with sweat and exhaustion in some underground engine room. By Friday afternoon, the wheels slowly stop spinning, and to watch the City toilers swarm in their thousands over the Thames bridges to their railway termini is to see this mass exodus less as a matter of will than of obedience to some centuries-old compulsion. By early Sunday morning, the City, so far from settling itself for a deeper sleep, lies silently expectant, awaiting the visitation of a ghostly army, summoned by bells to worship old gods in their carefully preserved shrines and to walk down quiet, remembered streets. Even the river seems to flow more slowly.