Rutledge found himself thinking of his godfather, David Trevor, in Scotland—and banished the image before it had formed. Trevor was an architect by profession, with a love of buildings that he’d conveyed to his godson through the years. It was hard to see a place such as this without recalling all that had passed between the two men—or, now, remembering what had happened in Scotland just over a month ago.

Rutledge followed Sedgwick out onto the terrace, where comfortable chairs had been set up to take advantage of the garden views. The housekeeper returned with a tray of glasses and decanters while Rutledge was admiring the flower beds. They were showing signs of autumn wear, but they had been designed with an eye for every season. The rare Japanese chrysanthemums were glorious.

“What will you have?” Sedgwick asked, and when told, held out a very good whiskey. As Rutledge turned to accept it, he noticed a remarkable stone rectangle set at an angle in the garden. Larger-than-life apes, four squatting in a row, stared at the house, their eyes unblinking and focused, as if sharing some knowledge that was theirs alone.

They had been carved in bas-relief, with a vividness that was both unusual and riveting. Exotic as the land they’d come from, they rested on their haunches, unperturbed by this English garden, or by the Englishmen who had stepped into view.

Catching the direction of Rutledge’s glance, Sedgwick said, “I don’t know why my father kept the damned thing. Or, for that matter, why I leave it there. Except that the previous owners of the house felt it brought good luck, and he was superstitious about that. I can’t think why it should—it’s as ugly as anything I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s Egyptian, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right. Eighteenth Dynasty, I’m told. It once stood in the hall, just by the stairs. Where the Jacobean table is now. God knows how the Chastains came by it! They were magpies, collecting whatever caught their fancy. I couldn’t abide looking into those faces every night before I went up to bed. And Arthur swore it gave him nightmares as a child. When my father died, I banished it to the gardens.”

Rutledge walked down the steps and went to examine the thick slab of stone. It had been cut from a building’s wall, he thought. Longer than it was tall, it was well polished, not rough. The figures of the baboons, it seemed, were meant to catch the morning and afternoon sun in a climate where the light was intense. Slanting rays would give them an almost three-dimensional quality. Here in the much paler light of the English Broads they possessed an almost preternatural air.