“We’d been seeing each other for a while, had been mostly living together in my house. Somebody from my past turned up—a man my partner on the NYPD had sent to prison for murder some years before. He began killing people close to me, and Sarah was, naturally, very frightened. Then he planted a car bomb outside a gallery where Sarah was showing her paintings. We managed to get everybody out before it went off, but after that, she just wanted to leave the country as quickly as possible. She asked me to come with her, and initially, I agreed, but then, at the airport, I changed my mind. She got on the airplane and, as far as I know, never looked back. I didn’t hear from her again after that.”

“Cool and decisive,” Lance said.

“That doesn’t make her a murderer.”

“I guess not.” Lance stood up. “I’ll take your advice, Stone. I don’t suppose anything I could say at the inquest would make a great deal of difference.”

“Not after the barrister got through with you,” Stone said.

“He wants to talk to you; you’d better get dressed and come downstairs.” Lance left the room and closed the door behind him.

Stone sat and thought about the scene on the boat for a minute. Lance couldn’t be right, could he? Of course not. He got up and headed for a shower.

13

STONE SHAVED, SHOWERED, DRESSED, and went downstairs; the house was very quiet. He walked into the library and found a man sitting before a fire reading a leather-bound volume. “Good morning,” he said.

The man rose; he was of Stone’s height but much slimmer, balding, with pale gray eyes. “Good morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m Bernard Pickering. I expect you’re Barrington.”

Stone shook the hand. “Yes.”

“I’ve ordered us some breakfast,” Pickering said, nodding at a small table at the end of the room that had been set for two. As if on cue, a maid entered the room bearing a silver tray. “Come,” Pickering said, leading the way.

“I understand you’re a lawyer back in the States,” Pickering said, pitching into his eggs.

“That’s right.”

“Have you done any criminal work?”

“Yes, and I was a police officer for many years before I began to practice law.”

“And you’re a partner, now, in Woodman and Weld?” the barrister asked, rasing his eyebrows.

“I’m of counsel. I work out of my own office.”

“I see,” Pickering replied, though clearly he didn’t.

“I do much of their criminal work.”

Pickering’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I see.” Now he really did. “Well, that should make our conversation easier. I’m glad you’re someone who will understand the, ah, limits of my questions.”

“You mean the limits of my answers, don’t you?”