"Oh, no," Marguerite moaned when Tom gestured to the blood.

But how? he thought, rising. What had Roberto been doing when this happened? Nearby, on the arm of a battered old chair, he could see, untidily piled, the blue shirt and dark trousers Roberto had been wearing when the police had taken him from the dower house, crowned by a pair of black socks and white regulation underpants. It appeared Roberto was readying himself to resume work by returning to his uniform: shoes and chapeau and nothing in between. But his work shoes, the dust-covered trainers, sat by a pair of dress Oxfords tucked beside the old chair. Roberto's feet looked wet; they were bare, as was his head. His headdress, the white rugby shorts of the day before, was worn where rugby shorts ought to be worn, around his midsection.

"Did you know he had returned to Egges...o...b..?" Tom asked, his mind half occupied with the oddity of Roberto's dress.

"He called from the village, from Abbotswick." Marguerite rose shakily. "He had the police leave him there. He wanted to walk the rest of the way. I expect he couldn't bear their company, though he didn't say so."

"Then what brought you to-?"

"Here, to the stables? He wasn't answering his mobile. And I know he had it with him, because we talked while he was walking through the village," she said. "I ... I'd forgotten to ask him if he'd like to join us for tea. I wasn't worried he didn't answer," she added, preempting Tom's next question. "Often some machine here is making a terrific racket, so I came over and ..."

"I'm so sorry, Marguerite. So young, such talent. So much more to come in life."

"His poor father. He's already lost one child."

"Do you have a way of reaching him?"

"I have a number somewhere."

"And have you your mobile? I have mine. We'll need to call the police. Handily," he said, grimacing, "they're not far off."

He stepped nearer to her, and together they looked with sorrow upon the body of Roberto Sica in silence. Tom reached for the words to formulate a prayer, but the sound of moving water intruded on his concentration.

"Roberto couldn't possibly have had one of those decorative indoor water fountains some people find relaxing?"

"I think Roberto would have found such a thing very twee. Why would you ask such a-oh! I see. Yes, there is water running somewhere." She turned towards the sound, seeking the source in the gloom. "I know the drain in the floor by the sink is slow. Roberto mentioned it yesterday."

Tom stepped the few feet towards the sink, an old ceramic contraption with two tubs and a draining board to one side. The bright trickle wasn't of water draining, it was of water flowing, and he was right. Winking in the dim light, it slipped over the edge of the sink and streamed thinly to the sloped floor, where it contributed to a pooling around a small grille.

"A tap's been left running," he said, stepping through the water and leaning towards the sink. As he reached for the tap handle, he was arrested by a partly submerged shape magnified darkly in the rippling water. He hesitated, puzzled, his mind straining to identify the alien thing. And when he did, when his eyes travelled to the pale tether snaking from the sink, across the draining board and up the wall, he leapt away as far as any man with an injured ankle could.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

"Shocking."

"That is not a worthy comment, Sergeant."

"I'm not having a laugh, Vicar. It's shocking that you think this is an accident."

"I merely presented the possibility on the phone with you to spare Lady Fairhaven's feelings. Although," Tom backtracked, "surely the possibility does exist."

"Electrical appliances don't dive into water of their own accord."

"Perhaps it got knocked-"

Detective Sergeant Blessing stopped him with a world-weary grunt. "I can understand your need for wishful thinking, sir. One murder following another in two days. Better an unrelated accident, yes?"

"Better no violent deaths at all, Sergeant."

"Well, you can't turn back time."

"Thank you for that wisdom." Tom looked down the yard, past DI Bliss and the busy scene of crime officers, to Marguerite, her face drawn, her elegant fingers tugging a horse blanket tighter around her shoulders. "It hardly seems possible."

"I thought we'd opted for foul play."

"I meant it hardly seems possible that Mr. Sica could be electrocuted."

"Did you happen to glance at the power outlet?"

"For a split second. I could see the radio didn't have one of our big British plugs."

"That it didn't. It has one of those two-p.r.o.nged Europlugs. Not fused, like ours. Looks like someone pushed some item into the ground socket-"

"The killer?"

"Unlikely. People come home from the Continent with some appliance or other and can't be bothered to adapt the plug end for our system, so they n.o.bble the ground socket and stuff the two p.r.o.ngs in. Highly dangerous. It's an old radio, Italian name on it. The plug looks a bit newer, though. Likely a rewiring job some time back."

"Someone was taking an awful chance, though, don't you think? Could you be certain tipping the radio into the water would have a deadly effect?"

"It does have an aura of impulse to it, I'll allow, sir."

"And it's not a copycat crime."

Blessing raised an enquiring eyebrow.

"I do glance at the occasional police procedural on television, Sergeant."

Blessing grunted disapprovingly.

Tom revisited the scene in his head. The shock, the jolt of electricity through Roberto's body, must have thrown him hard against the table, where his head collided with a sharp corner. But the electricity, not the blow, would have killed him.

"Might I ask, Sergeant, why you and the DI decided to ..." The expression pick on was entertained and swiftly discarded. "... to select Mr. Sica for more ... intensive questioning?"

Blessing's lips thinned. "I'm not sure that's any of your business, is it, Vicar?"

"I wish it weren't so, Sergeant, but people seem to quickly attach guilt to anyone stuffed into a police car and taken away off to a police station. I've had the sensation myself."

"So I understand."

"Then you know about my late wife?"

Blessing nodded.

"Avon and Somerset CID got the wrong end of the stick then, and you got the wrong end of the stick with Roberto. I'm sorry if I'm being intrusive but wouldn't it be a courtesy to Lady Fairhaven to let her and her family know that Roberto had nothing to do with Lord Morborne's death?"

"Because Mr. Sica is dead does not mean he didn't do it. Strangle Morborne."

"If you thought he did it, you would have arrested him."

"That's as may be, sir."

Tom frowned. "I thought perhaps you were putting too much weight on the coincidence of Roberto Sica's late sister having once been Lord Morborne's lover and the two men being here at Egges...o...b.. at the same time. It is only coincidence. Roberto's been living here for some time. Lord Morborne came to Egges...o...b.. for the sole purpose of the Leaping Lords fund-raiser. Alessandra Sica died six years ago. If Roberto wanted to take some sort of revenge, he would have-"

"Done it years ago?" Blessing shrugged. "Hatreds don't vanish, they only go underground. That's my experience. This coincidence, as you call it, presented an opportunity-isn't that possible? Besides." He rubbed at one of the many tiny eruptions on his face. "We had something more solid."

"Physical evidence?"

Blessing's battered face turned stony.

"Well, whatever it is, it can't have been strong," Tom argued, suspecting a reign of disappointment among the investigators, "or you would have brought a charge against him."

"It was you who happened across Lady Fairhaven, here, in these stables, yes?" Blessing changed the subject.

"Yes, Lady Kirkbride and I, with my daughter and Max. Lady Fairhaven invited us to tea. We found her ..." Tom hesitated, suddenly taken by a flicker in Blessing's eyes to what was pa.s.sing through his mind. "It's ridiculous to think-"

"It's not unknown-"

"I know what you're going to say, that it's not unknown for the person claiming to have stumbled across the body to have been the killer. But what on earth would Lady Fairhaven's motive be? I don't know the exact nature of their relationship, but it is at least one of affection-and most likely more. You're grasping at straws, Sergeant. Surely whoever killed Lord Morborne killed Roberto Sica-because, I suspect, Roberto posed some sort of threat."

"Which eliminates almost no one from suspicion, Vicar."

"You can eliminate the dowager countess, Sergeant," Tom said with rising asperity, "and I'll tell you why, if you'd care to hear it."

"I'm waiting."

"Roberto was somewhat of a naturist."

"You brought that to our attention yourself. The ghost, so called, that your daughter saw."

"He also works largely unclothed. Not in the winter, I shouldn't think. But in the summer, when the sun heats up his studio."

Blessing looked to the sky. "Beginning to cloud over now."

"He does cover up-for guests who intrude into his studio, for children. I said he's somewhat of a naturist. He's not an exhibitionist. When Lady Kirkbride and I visited his studio yesterday, he removed a pair of rugby shorts he was wearing on his head-yes, Sergeant, on his head, to protect his hair from marble dust-and stepped into them."

"The same shorts that are on the body now."

"Exactly. It appears he had undressed to begin his work-you can see the pile of clothes on an old chair-and yet he was wearing shorts where shorts ought to be-which isn't on the head. Which suggests to me that someone interrupted him as he was about to resume his work, obliging him to pay at least lip service to modesty."

"Dowager Lady Fairhaven? Why not?"

"Sergeant, would you rush to cover up for your lover?"

Egges...o...b.. Hall 8 AUGUST.

Dear Mum, You would think that decent, hardworking folk would have something better to do of a Monday afternoon that's not a bank holiday, but it seems there are a lot of layabouts in Abbotswick and beyond. I can see them out my window loitering in the Gatehouse forecourt this very minute expecting I don't know what from I don't know whom who whom. I'm surprised someone from the village hasn't set up an ice-cream stall, and when I said that very thing to the man in the village ship shop earlier this afternoon, his eyes lit up like a bonfire. Still, the weather looks changeable at the moment-the sky to the northeast is getting a bit dark-so anyone selling ices may well get their heads and their goods drenched. Anyway, Mum, the very nice PC who is minding the gate let me slip down to the village, which he isn't supposed to do as Egges...o...b.. is sealed off like a castle in a snow globe, but he said that as I reminded him of his old mum (!), he'd let me go down the shop to fetch some of the papers, which I've been missing. PC Widger told me to be very discrete discreet not to talk about the doings up at the Hall, but of course lots of folk in the shop saw me at church yesterday, and I'd told the vicar after the service where I was staying, so I couldn't very well pretend I had just dropped out of the sky! Of course, they were all terribly eager for news, and I was as discrete (or is it discreet? Such a nuisance of a word!) as you please, within reason, but it turns out they knew as much as I did! More! I couldn't even tell them about Lord Morborne spending the night with the barmaid, because there it was, splashed across The Sun-"My Romp with 'Mad' Morborne." I'm looking at it right this minute. According to the story, Lord Morborne favoured M&S underpants! I don't usually buy The Sun, of course, but I thought in this instance I might give my standards leave to fall a bit. I must say I was shocked yesterday to learn that a man of his position would behave so wickedly, especially after announcing his engagement to a perfectly respectable woman in London, but he did sw.a.n.k about a bit-I could see it at the barbecue supper on Sat.u.r.day-so I suppose it's not really surprising. Did you get a copy of today's (Monday) Sun? If you did, I suppose you can see why Lord M. might have fancied her, men being what they are. They're never real, I said to a woman next to me in the shop, as she was practically spilling out of her blouse-the barmaid in the picture, I mean, not the woman in the shop. How could a barmaid afford that sort of surgery? Turns out her parents afforded her the surgery on her 21st birthday! Can you imagine, Mum? I said to the woman next to me: the handcart is very much on its way to h.e.l.l Hades! And she agreed. Anyway, I'm told the barmaid got her termination notice sharpish. (Lord Fairhaven owns the Pilgrims Inn, I learned.) But folk say The Sun paid her 5,000 for the "exclusive" so that should tide the silly cow over. The big news is that one of the people living on the estate was taken to Totnes "to help the police with their enquiries" and you know what that may mean! It's Roberto Sica, a young artist friend of the dowager countess. No one in the shop was sure why, but I daresay one of the reporters around here will have it in the papers tomorrow, if not on telly or on some modern device or other later this afternoon. But, Mum, according to the man in the shop, who learned it from very nice PC Widger, who will probably get in trouble for letting on what he knows, the scene of crime folk found a red thread clinging to the branches of the shrubbery that makes up the Egges...o...b.. Labyrinth. And that thread matches a jacket or a jumper found in Dowager Lady Fairhaven's house! And it belongs to Roberto Sica! 'Arry Adney's thread, a rather distiquis smart older gentleman in the shop said very excitedly, but no one knew what he meant. Some Greek myth apparently, though it sounded to me like the thread belonged to someone in the East End. Anyway, I'm not sure the villagers find the "arrest" very satisfying and maybe the CID didn't either, as Roberto was seen getting out of a police car at the edge of the village. Roberto isn't well known in the village. He keeps himself to himself carving things, folk say. But they are all very fond of Lady Fairhaven, as she does much good in the village. I told them I met the "artist" at the Sat.u.r.day supper and that he seemed a sort of brooding type, dark brow and all, and that there had been a bit of an "atmosphere" between him and Lord Morborne. Eyes lit up over that, but they were much more interested when I said that Roberto arrived at the supper HOLDING HANDS with Dowager Lady Fairhaven. That set tongues to wagging! Well, I said I supposed if Roberto did strangle Lord Morborne he must have been seized by a great pa.s.sion! Like someone in a Georgette Heyer novel, a lady said, which I thought rather captured it. Perhaps he had been avenging Lady Fairhaven's honour. But our very smart older gentleman said the instance was more like something out of a John Webster play, but as no one knew who John Webster was (do you, Mum?) we pa.s.sed on to other talk. No one wanted to think that Lady Fairhaven had pitched up with someone nasty, but no one could think of why anyone else nearabouts hereabouts would wish to harm Lord Morborne though apparently, according to The Sun, he's ticked off not a few folk in London and beyond. Of course, many had seen that foolish video of Lord Fairhaven and Lord M. bashing at each other in the sky like schoolboys, but everyone here thinks Lord F. is a decent enough fellow if a bit supersilli toffee-nosed. If you see Monday's Sun you'll see the chart on page 8 of the other guests at Egges...o...b.. Hall this weekend, including Mr. Christmas, who won't be best pleased when he finds out! I can't imagine where the writer learned this, as Mr. Christmas hadn't planned to stay past Sat.u.r.day and Lady Lucinda fforde-Beckett and Dominic f-B. weren't expected at all! The Sun says Lord M. and Lady L. were rowing over who had the right to live in Morborne House in Eaton Square-a house valued at 7 million! Everyone in the shop thought that might set sister against brother (or half s. against half b. in this instance), but others thought the one who really benefits is Dominic f-B., who inherits the t.i.tle and everything that goes with it, including Morborne House and all the art inside, but others thought it was a bit 13th century to do in your cousin for a castle (of sorts). Others noted that the victim's other cousin, Lord Kirkbride, was in attendance, but I told them that Lord and Lady Kirkbride had had Sunday lunch with us last year and that they were very very nice and wouldn't harm a flea. The Sun, you'll see, Mum, didn't bother to mention Ellen or Mick-or me, for that matter. Perhaps readers find t.i.tled folk more interesting. Just as well, I suppose. Anyway, this may be all for naught as by the time you read this, Lord Morborne's murderer may have been rooted out. I hope so. I did enjoy myself at the village shop-good to be away from Egges...o...b..'s gloom-though our little gathering scattered when a hawkish-looking man stepped in. The Sun writer, someone whispered, and so I came back to the Gatehouse. My visit with Ellen isn't quite what I expected, I must say. I suppose we're different people than we were years ago and all we've really got in common is some memories of our school and London in another day, but I think we could have got to know each other better again if there hadn't been this unhappy incident, which has turned everything at Egges...o...b.. upside down. Working in a Big House has been rather jolly and Ellen's been glad of my help which I know because she's said so, but she's come over a bit peculiar since Lord M. died. Actually, both she and Mick have just returned to the Gatehouse now, as I right write, which is a bit of odd timing. I should get on to the dower house anyway. Dowager Lady Fairhaven has invited me to tea! Fancy that! It's a birthday tea for Mr. C. Raised voices, Mum! I can hear Ellen and Mick right up the stairwell, as my door is open. Mum, you won't believe this. Now Roberto

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

Tom looked towards the dower house, its silhouetted roofline looming blackly against the pearly sky. Someone had left the front door open, he noted, but with no illumination trickling from the hall beyond, the house's entrance looked a dark cavity, a mouth in a frozen scream. No lights warmed the windows, either, despite the peculiar darkening of the late afternoon. Each window appeared as a dead black eye. It struck him that Marguerite's house looked abandoned, and for a moment crossing the gravel forecourt he felt a sickening trickle of fear. He glanced at Jamie, who had moments earlier emerged from a shortcut through the linden trees bordering the north lawn, avid-at first-with curiosity at the new flurry of activity in the park until he learned the reason for it. Now he returned Tom's glance with an anxious frown. Only Marguerite showed no sign of concern.

"Where is everyone, I wonder? Hulloo!" Jamie called as he stepped past the lintel.

When he got no answer he added in a comic voice, as if to cover his own anxiety, "And is there honey still for tea?" He poked his head through the door into the front drawing room. "Is there any tea at all?"

"Perhaps they're in the back garden visiting the chickens." Tom followed behind a silent Marguerite. With Jamie in front, they had unintentionally formed a phalanx around her.

"Then to the back garden we shall go." Jamie stepped down the pa.s.sage that led to the kitchen.

It was as they approached the door that divided the front rooms from the service rooms that Tom's earlier trickle of fear surged to an adrenaline gush, setting his heart to racing. The hushed house they were pa.s.sing through in shadow, a sudden skittering noise beyond the door, like that of a small animal disturbed, followed by a faint acrid whiff of sulphur as Jamie pushed through the door: It all came together in an instant and he knew before the room blazed up with light and his heart calmed what was to befall him. He almost bowed his head to the inevitable as Marguerite stepped aside, and the word in a swelling of high voices sounded: "Surprise!"

"Are you surprised, Daddy?" Miranda asked, her face radiant in candlelight glowing from a large gateau in her small hands.

"I am thoroughly surprised!" He looked left and right of Miranda at Anna and Jane, who telegraphed an admixture of emotions: worry, dread, curiosity-and the strain of carrying on a charade of normalcy.

"It's too much, Marguerite. It really is." He turned to the dowager countess, who favoured him with a faltering smile and replied: "Fun for the kiddiewinks, I think," adding sotto voce, "We must carry on."

"Quick, Daddy, make a wish! My arms are getting stretched."

"Give it to me, then. What a splendid birthday cake," he exclaimed striving for a jollity he in no way felt. "Look what's written on it! And what a frightening lot of candles!" He placed it on a cake stand on the table next to a small stack of cake plates and paused in contemplation, glancing at the faces of the others in its candle glow as they crowded around. Every year on this day, at this very moment, wishes swarmed his mind but after entertaining the possibilities, he wished as always for Miranda to be forever out of harm's way. He did so again, and never with such urgency.

"Daddy, please!"

The wax from the candles was beginning to sizzle into the cake icing. Quickly, Tom made his wish, then he bent forward into the blaze of heat and sucked in his breath, mindful that a birthday wish only comes true if blown out in a single breath. He exhaled in a noisy blast of air. The candles snuffed out smartly, leaving forty tiny wisps of smoke spiraling towards the ceiling. Everyone clapped and launched into a sweetly inharmonious chorus of "Happy Birthday."

"Daddy, what did you wish for this time?"

"That would be telling." Tom tapped the side of his nose as Marguerite handed him a cake trowel. "Are you really sure you can bear this?" he murmured.

"A useful distraction, I think," she replied, plucking the spent candles from the cake top.

Tom could see Miranda studying him with frank appraisal. He cast her a wan smile, feeling somehow that his bonhomie was fooling no one, least of all his daughter. Jamie, meanwhile, he could see, was distracted by the presence of a stranger, unintroduced, in the room-Anna Phillips-but directed by Marguerite towards a bottle of champagne cooling in a bucket on the counter.