But it was the river that drew one’s attention with its magnetic power, its voice and its shifting, scintillating movement. The garden was just a swatch of lawn that needed mowing, edged with a few beds of colorful flowers: poppies, foxgloves, roses. Fuchsia and a bay tree hung over the drystone wall from next door. At the bottom was a low iron railing decorated with curlicues, and beyond that the riverbank itself. A white table and four matching chairs awaited them in the shade of an old beech tree, along with a jug full of ice cubes and orange juice. The French doors remained open and Banks could hear music playing quietly inside. He recognized the opening movement of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

“I thought cold drinks might be nicer than tea,” Linda Palmer said, “but it’s up to you.”

“Cold is fine,” said Banks, hanging his jacket over the back of the chair. His tie had disappeared soon after the morning meeting.

“Good, then. Let’s sit down, shall we?”

They sat. Banks noticed a book facedown on the table beside an ashtray. It was called Dart by Alice Oswald, and looked slim enough to be a volume of poetry. Beside it sat a black Moleskine notebook with a Mont Blanc rollerball lying across its cover, which seemed a bit upmarket for a poet. Perhaps poets got paid more than he thought. Linda Palmer poured the drinks, which turned out to be freshly squeezed orange juice, judging by the pulp and tang. It was good to be in the shade in the warm summer weather. A light, cool breeze made the garden even more comfortable. A black cat came out from the bushes, gazed at them with a distinct lack of interest and stretched out in the sun.

“Don’t mind her,” said Linda. “That’s Persephone. Persy, for short, though that makes her sound male, doesn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful here,” Banks said.

“Thank you. I just adore it. We get a kingfisher sometimes, sitting on that branch over the water, scanning for fish. I could watch him for hours. Plenty of other birds, too, of course. The feeder attracts finches, wagtails, tits of all kinds. We get swifts and swallows in the evening, an owl at night. And the bats, of course. It can be really magical when the moon is full. Sometimes I don’t think I would be at all surprised to see fairies at the bottom of this garden.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“I do now. Not always.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “Two children, both grown up and flown the coop. One husband, deceased.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She inclined her head. “It was two years ago. Heart attack. Charles was a good man. He was an English prof at Durham.”

“Did you ever tell him and the children about what happened?”