"No," she said, then amended her reply, "I don't know. Yes, probably," she amended again, more firmly this time.

"Perhaps you should explain." Puzzled, Tom watched her as she loosed the band from her hair, letting it cascade along her shoulders.

Anna paused as if to gather her thoughts. "We have racked our brains for a long time, John and I, about the ident.i.ty of the ginger, going over the people at Tullochbrae at the time of William's murder. One or two of the staff had red hair, and at your wedding, Jane, a guest or two had red hair, but by the time of your brother-in-law's death, most of the wedding guests had departed. We could think of no one from David's brief description-absolutely no one-with a motive strong enough, or the character brazen enough, to-"

"And your brother could give you no other description?" Jane asked impatiently. "Height, build ...?"

"No." Anna shook her head. "Not that he could say.

"David lived in another Steiner community, Highdale, this one near Buckfastleigh-not far from here at all. Both John and I volunteer there. John helps them with the gardening. I often lend secretarial support, which they always seem to run short of-helping with fund-raising and such. David was very happy there. There's a hundred acres of farm and gardens and woodlands on the edge of Dartmoor, and he spent much time working on the upkeep with the other residents. He'd gained enormously in confidence. Although they're supervised as they work, they're not minded as though they're children. Last week-a week ago today-David was working in the lower vegetable garden, then went to walk up Hawkmoor Road to another garden. He would do this every day, at virtually the same time. Routine was very important to him. As you know, he was killed by a car on Hawkmoor Road, very much a speeding car, the police tell me, to have ..." Anna looked bleak. "So hard to take in what has happened in a week."

Tom flicked a glance at Jane. "Take your time," he said to Anna.

"As you read in the paper, the police have been unable to find the car or the driver. We were allowed to bury David, however. There was a service Friday at St. Bartholomew's near Buckfastleigh. Sat.u.r.day morning, I went to Highdale to retrieve David's few things, among them a tablet computer we'd given him for Christmas. He was never too interested in computers, but something about the open face and the colour of the tablet attracted him. Some games he liked to play on it, and he would watch videos. He got used to messaging me and John ... and others, it turned out. His disability impaired his verbal abilities a little, but he could write and read at a reasonable level." She reached down for another blanket. "I happened to glance at some of the messages he had lately sent. Most were to others in the community, to some of the volunteers. A few were to old mates at the Bournemouth community, and a very few to more distant organisations-football clubs and the like. Harmless responses to matches on TV and such. But one that caught my eye was to the Daedalus Group. David's message was to ask that some group I'd never heard of-Spector? Was that it?-be considered for a concert next year at the O2 Arena."

Tom frowned. "This People's Choice concert 'Mad' Morborne, so called, was organising."

"You mean," Jane said, "your brother wrote to Oliver directly."

"He wrote to Lord Morborne's company-I know that. Morborne had been on BBC Breakfast last month, talking up this thing, asking viewers to email or text or tweet him-him, personally; some special address had been set up-their favourite musicians."

"But Daedalus must have received thousands and thousands of-"

"I know," Anna cut in. "But I am also certain, absolutely certain, that even though it's really staff who weed through these messages, if they weed through them at all, and it's not some cynical populist exercise, Oliver saw David's message, and read it."

"You mean," Jane said, "Oliver sent a reply."

"No. He would have been careful not to. And anyone seeing the message from David to Morborne-either at Daedalus or on David's tablet-would have thought little of it. Except for John and me."

"Why?" Tom and Jane spoke in one voice.

"Because David, sadly, despite his short-term memory challenges, was, this time, able to remember a face. At the end of his note suggesting Spector he wrote innocently, 'I've seen you before. I used to live in Scotland. In a place called Tullochbrae. You came to a wedding there.' "

CHAPTER TWENTY.

"But that's impossible!" The horse blanket fell from Jane's hand. "Olly wasn't at our wedding. He was invited, of course. One of the cousins. But he didn't come. He was at a funeral in London."

"What day was the funeral?" Tom asked.

"The day after our wedding, as it happens. Boysie should have gone to London for the funeral, too. The man who died was a friend of his and Olly's from school-Kamran Arouzi-but as Boysie was standing up for Jamie, there was just no time to get down to London." She paused. "Of course, Boysie was killed two days after our wedding. Jamie and I were en route to South America for our honeymoon. I suppose it is possible ... but-wait!-couldn't your brother have seen Oliver at Tullochbrae at some other wedding?"

"No." Anna was adamant.

"But-"

"Jane, in the years I lived at Tullochbrae, I only recall one other wedding, and that was for one of the ghillies. David was five years younger than me, so he would have been perhaps four at the time. He wouldn't remember it."

"You're right. Jamie's parents were the last Allans to be married on the estate before Jamie and me." Jane bit along her lower lip. "Of course, Oliver would never have entered our heads. I suppose if John hadn't admitted to his brother's death, maybe-maybe!-some evidence that Oliver had been in Scotland would have surfaced-a train ticket or a plane ticket, a gap in his diary, a sighting somewhere on one of the roads, on the estate ... but the police were relieved from doing any investigating once John came forwards.

"But why? We always believed, Jamie and I at least-his mother, too-that John was innocent. Whatever the differences between Boysie and John, we could not bring ourselves to believe it would end so ..." She flicked a glance at Tom. "... so biblically."

"Cain and Abel."

"But a cousin?" Jane frowned. "It seems almost as ... I can't find the word! Appalling? Shocking? Oliver and Boysie were great friends, Jamie tells me, closer than most brothers." She paused. "I can't imagine what the motive would be? And what could it be that all these years later he would come down to Devon, Anna, with the intent of harming your brother? Does John have any idea?"

Anna's movements had taken her near the window. She turned her head, as if drawn momentarily to the view. The light, northern, cool, and diffused, streamed through the curtain of her fair hair, encircling her head in a soft halo. Tom stared for the time it lasted, captivated by the ethereal, near-angelic effect, before Anna continued past. The sensation he'd had earlier, in Marguerite's garden that morning, possessed him anew. He was certain now, and impatient to ask: "You were in the Labyrinth early Sunday morning, weren't you?"

Anna, opening her mouth to respond to Jane's question, turned slightly, glanced at him with a little stricken look. A flush mottled her throat and rose to crimson her face. "No."

"I think you were, Anna. Whatever could you have meant this morning when I offered my condolences? You said, 'Rough justice may have already prevailed.' "

"The whole village-the whole country, now-knows Morborne is dead."

"Perhaps it was the way you said it."

"Do you think that I-?"

"I wasn't accusing you."

"I've thought that I would happily have done so, if I could. He was-" The squeal of a door hinge sounding from across the stable yard distracted them.

"Roberto must be back from Totnes," Jane remarked. "That door could use an oiling. Tom, we should get the kids and move on to Marve's soon," she added, glancing at her watch. "Look, I'll have Jamie meet us there. You will come, of course." A look that brooked no reb.u.t.tal dissolved into a frown. "You said earlier you had been 'keeping out of the way.' Keeping out of the way of Jamie and me?"

"I knew you were coming to tea at Lady Fairhaven's, and I thought you might recognise me. Without John present, I couldn't-"

"My husband is going to be over the moon to see you, Anna. And then he's going to have his hopes dashed. Do you have no idea where John's gone?"

"No, none. I was going to say, Tom, that Morborne was already dead when I arrived. It was your voice I heard in the Labyrinth. I recognised it when I heard you speaking with Marguerite this morning."

"I had been saying Morning Prayers," Tom responded, troubled at her curt reply to Jane's question. Could she really be so unattuned to her lover's habits? "I thought I glimpsed someone with light-coloured hair in the faint light. What would bring you to the Labyrinth at such an early hour?"

"I followed him. Morborne. I thought he might lead me to John."

"But ...?"

"I thought John might be ... dead."

"But why?" Jane stared at her, aghast.

"And then when I found Morborne dead I thought ..."

Tom glanced at Jane. He knew exactly what she was thinking, but he no more than she wanted to acknowledge the possibility. "When you and Sebastian-John-read the text on the tablet and realised its terrible implication, what did you decide to do?" he asked instead.

Anna looked away, as if reviewing the scene in her mind's eye. "We didn't speak, really. John seemed to freeze somehow, staring, unmoving. I've never seen him like that. It frightened me terribly. Then, suddenly he got up from the table and walked out. I haven't seen him since.

"I thought perhaps he had gone straight to Egges...o...b.., to root out his cousin, to show himself to you, Jane, and his brother, if that's what was necessary. It was late afternoon, and the charity event was ending. I was supposed to be on compa.s.sionate leave, but I had asked to take a shift at the Pilgrims Inn. I needed badly to keep myself occupied and the pub was expecting people to stop by on their way back to Thornford. As the evening wore on I grew more anxious. I was expecting the police to arrive at any moment, for my world to cave in again.

"But nothing. Late in the evening, Morborne came into the Pilgrims with some other men, looking hardly bothered. It was sickening to be in his presence, but I felt helpless to do anything, not knowing what had become of John. Time was called at midnight, but Morborne stayed on chatting up the barmaids. I kept my distance. When I finished I waited outside in the road. I had no idea what I was going to say or do. But he came out with Janice Sclanders, one of the staff, and went to her parents' cottage, whistling as though he hadn't a worry in the world.

"I couldn't sleep that night. John didn't return, and I couldn't contact him. He refuses to have a mobile, and it wasn't until well into the morning before I saw that his rucksack and a few other things were missing. I was frightened for what might have happened to him or ..." Anna's voice dropped. "... for what he might be planning to do.

"Finally, at about five, sometime before the sun rose-I must have nodded off for a bit-I heard whistling coming down the lane beside our cottage. I expect I was fuzzy from sleep-I raced into the road in my pajamas and caught his arm. I was insane with worry and grief by that time, accusing him of killing David and demanding to know what he had done with John. He brushed me off as a madwoman, pushing me away, brutally. I cut my hand on the side of our gate. I'm surprised our neighbours weren't awoken. I dashed in, put on a plaster, got into some clothes, and found my torch. I'm not sure what I thought I was going to do. As I say, I was going out of my mind."

"You might have been in danger."

"I didn't think. I didn't care about the hour. I was going to rouse the whole household, if I had to, but ... When I was past the Gatehouse and onto the grounds, I could see light flashing from the middle of the Labyrinth-a torchlight-and voices-"

"Did you recognise the voices?" Jane's tone was urgent.

"No. Male voices certainly. I moved on a bit, then thought one of them must surely be Morborne's. A certain haughty tone. I'd been listening to him hold court at the Pilgrims for several hours. He had only come this way perhaps ten or fifteen minutes before me. Who else would be on Egges...o...b..'s grounds at that hour? But the other voice was lower, indiscernible. In my panic and dread-you must remember how dark it still was-I became certain it was John's. Somehow-in my imaginings-John had accosted his cousin and was ..." Anna looked away.

"I ran through the maze, ran like a crazed woman. There was no light anymore from the centre, and no voices, which somehow seemed even more frightening. But when I arrived at the centre of the Labyrinth-nothing. The sky was beginning to lighten but I could see no shadow of anyone, no silhouette. I must have stood there some little time, stunned. I thought perhaps my poor brain had imagined the whole episode. Then I heard a thrashing noise of someone or something pushing through the shrubs at the edge of the Labyrinth. I tried to call out, but I think fright seized my throat. I could hear nothing but the faint sound of someone running over gra.s.s."

"Which way, which way?" Tom couldn't stop the urgency in his voice. "Did the sound seem to move towards the Hall or towards the village?"

"Towards the village. That calmed me a little. I thought, if it were John, then nothing terrible had happened, and he'd gone back to the village, to home. I turned to leave and my torchlight caught something lying on the gra.s.s in front of one of the benches. It was Morborne. The hat, the jacket ...

"I don't know how long I stared at him. I knew he was dead." Anna stepped first into the yard. "My light caught his staring lifeless eye. Somehow I thought: Someone has killed him, someone with a powerful motive has killed him, and who would that be, other than John, who had every reason in the world to do away with this b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but who would be tried and convicted and spend a lifetime-another lifetime-in prison. I could feel myself about to pa.s.s out. I sank to my knees and-"

The door hinge across the yard squealed again, louder now, as Tom followed the women from the shadow of the tack room onto the warm cobbles of the stable yard. The horses set up a shuffling in the nearby stalls, as if the metallic rasp pained them. Shielding his eyes against the blaze of sunlight on the brick opposite, he glimpsed Marguerite in an awkward slumping posture-so uncharacteristic-against the door, her back to them as if she were lost in some peculiar meditation. Something, he sensed, was awry, but Max, with Miranda, burst from the shadow of the horse stalls at the moment, forestalling his concern.

"Grandmama," Max sang out.

Marguerite started, seemed to stiffen. She turned as they approached, pushing her hand through her hair and pushing her mouth into a smile that fell far short of her eyes.

"h.e.l.lo, poppets," she replied with a gaiety that couldn't quite disguise her ragged breathing. "Have you come for your tea?"

"Yes, Grannie," Max enthused, then canted his head. "Are you all right? You look peaky."

"It's nothing. I was having ... a little spell. The heat, you know."

"It's Mater who has spells," Max responded with some asperity.

"Yes, well ..." Marguerite's eyes lifted from the children to the adults, and in them Tom could see a disturbance that made him catch his breath. Before he could respond, Marguerite said with a lightness of tone, but with eyes telegraphing urgency, "Jane, Anna, would you take Max and Miranda back to my cottage?"

"Of course," Jane responded quickly.

"You can help Jane and Anna with the tea things," Marguerite said to the children. "It'll be fun."

Both Max and Miranda frowned at her. They're really too old, Tom thought, for this sort of pandering.

"Why aren't you coming with us?" Max asked in a sulky tone.

"I'm detaining Mr. Christmas for a few moments. You won't mind, Maxie darling. I need him to help me with something."

"What? Can't I help you?"

"You can't. I need someone ... tall. To reach, you see. Tom is taller than the rest of us."

Marguerite was improvising and not doing it awfully well. As Max opened his mouth for further protest, Jane interjected hastily, "Come on, you two. I'll race you to Marve's."

"One"-Max drew himself up to his full height, gliding off in the direction of the stable's arched entrance-"prefers not to engage in frivolous athletic activity. Come along, Miss Christmas."

"No, you come along," Miranda countered.

"Oh! All right. We'll both come along. Apparently we have tea to ready."

Tom sensed Marguerite sagging as they waited for the little party to turn out of the stable block onto the path to the dower house.

"What on earth's happened?" He turned back to her with not a little dread, noting her pallor.

She released a short breath and said, "Roberto's dead."

"Oh, G.o.d." Tom felt shock along his spine, and then the urgent, hopeful, hopeless question sprang from his lips. "Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"But ... how? It seems impossible. He's so ... fit ... young."

"I don't know how. But one knows when someone is dead. I'm afraid, Tom, I only saw what I saw for a moment, then dashed out. I suddenly needed sun and air." She pa.s.sed a hand over her brow. "Unforgivable of me."

"Not at all. We never know how we're going to react in such circ.u.mstances." Tom glanced at the heavy door to the studio, closed now against the horror. He had a ghastly presentiment, born of past experience. The winter before, in Thornford Regis, a man older than Roberto, but like him still in the prime of life, had been found unaccountably dead, sending the village into a frenzy of speculation. Men with youth and vigor don't drop dead for no good reason. And there had been no good reason. The cause had not been natural.

"I'm all right now." Marguerite's hand went to the door.

"You're not. You've had a frightful shock. What are you doing? Marguerite, it's a police matter now. Don't go in."

"I must. I can't live with the memory of me running out. I live in the country, close to nature, I see all sorts of unpleasant things-"

"The difference, Lady Fairhaven, is love."

Marguerite glanced at him, her eyes suddenly hardened. "An even better reason, then, for respect. Are you coming with me or not? I'll be wanting your prayers."

The studio interior appeared little different in arrangement than it had been on his visit the morning before, though with floodlights switched off, shape and shadow prevailed. The only light came in shafts from the open door and from a high window over the sink by the far wall-Dowager Lady Fairhaven's destination as she picked her way past the equipment and tables and around the unfinished statue of Dionysus and Ariadne along the stone floor, which, Tom half noted, following, lacked Sunday's carpet of fine marble dust just as the air lacked that morning's scrim of floating particles. Different, too, was the quiet, now turned ominous. Only their footfalls sounded against the floor-and then, as Tom drew nearer to where Marguerite had stopped, the soft gurgle and splash of running water, as if a merry brook were running by the stables.

"Oh, my," he blurted, his attention drawn swiftly to the crumpled, near-naked figure. Marguerite was correct: One would know instantly Roberto wasn't merely asleep, though sleeping on a cold floor, in this posture, his head half under one of the long tables, was too unlikely to be credited. The artist's eyes were open, staring up, fixed and opaque, yet they more than any other aspect of him caught the little light the room had to offer; they seemed to gleam balefully. Tom bent awkwardly and tentatively felt Roberto's cheek. Cooled, but not so much so. Marguerite struggled to her knees as if she had suddenly felt the weight of her years.

"I don't understand ..." Her voice came in an agonised whisper.

Nor did he. Tom surveyed the body but, other than the bruising noted on the chest the day before, it offered up no clues as to cause of death-no evident cuts, no new bruising, no red markings such as those on Lord Morborne that had led him to a swift conclusion about cause of death. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the thin light, he saw what hadn't been apparent before: blood, glistening blackly, pooled on the floor, half hidden behind Roberto's ear and a tumble of dark hair. His heart sank at the notion that some foolish misstep brought about this death, a slip, a trip, an awkward twist. He glanced at the tabletop above the dead man's head. The clay models that had been present the day before were tipped over. One had smashed onto the floor. Roberto fell backward? Hit the back of his head? It was possible, but the consequence-death, not injury-seemed outrageous, infuriating.