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think we’re interested in property?”
    â€œPeople like you who come here generally are. Possibilities, that’s what they said at the end of the war. Turn Furnham into a holiday town for the East End of London looking to enjoy the seaside. Well, you can see for yourself there’s not much in the way of seaside, is there? The river’s swift and the marshes run down to it, save for here in Furnham, where we’ve had boats as long as anyone can remember. We make our living from the river, it’s true, but there’s not much on offer for strangers wanting to amuse themselves.”
    â€œA friend,” Rutledge said slowly, “was here during the war. He told me that Furnham was a very unfriendly village. That’s not likely to bring holidaymakers rushing to visit here, is it?”
    â€œYet you came, didn’t you?” the man retorted. “In spite of our being unfriendly.”
    â€œYes, well, I thought he might have been mistaken. I was—curious, you see.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed. “Just why did you come, then?” He glanced at Frances, standing to one side, then turned back to Rutledge. “We’re at the end of a long road. It wasn’t happenstance brought you here.”
    â€œI told you. Curiosity.”
    â€œWas it the house with the gates? The ones with pineapples on the posts? It’s not for sale. Whatever you may have heard. Someone saw you walking there.”
    â€œA fine view to the river,” Rutledge said, as if agreeing with him. “But I prefer neighbors whose rooftops I can see.”
    â€œThen you’ll be on your way back to wherever it is you came from. I’ll bid you and your lady good day.”
    And he walked on, leaving them standing there.
    Frances said, “Ian, it’s not amusing any longer. I’d like to go.”
    As he walked with her to the motorcar, she added, “What are they hiding? For surely it must be that.”
    â€œA murder,” he said. “At a guess. But whose and when and why, I don’t know.”
    â€œThen I was right, there in the shop. It was Yard business that brought you here.”
    He shut her door and went to turn the crank. “I’m not quite sure what made me come here,” he said, joining her in the motorcar. “A man walked into my office recently and confessed to a murder. I’m not sure I believe him.”
    â€œBut why would he confess, if there was no truth to it?”
    â€œA good question. To protect someone else? To cover up another crime? To settle a property dispute? Or just to see what we knew—or didn’t know—about someone’s death?”
    â€œWe’re back to curiosity, again. His—and yours.”
    â€œExactly. But the Yard can’t investigate a crime just because someone tells us it happened. There’s no body, for one thing. Nor proof that it ever existed.”
    The rain arrived at last with steady lightning and heavy thunder, explosive drops striking the windscreen and blinding him as he concentrated on following the nearly invisible road. They ran out of the storm into a wind-driven downpour that pounded the motorcar, ending any conversation. Eventually that passed as well, leaving behind a steady drizzle that was more manageable. He was glad to be out of the marshes now, low lying and no bulwark against a rising river.
    Frances said, replying to what Rutledge had been explaining just as the storm broke, “And yet you drove all the way out here. There must have been something about him that made you wonder.”
    â€œHe told me he was dying. From the look of him, that part may well be true.”
    â€œYou think, once he’s dead, the thread will be lost? Is that why you are looking into this on your own?”
    â€œI expect I didn’t care to be made a fool of. With the truth—or with lies.”
    â€œBut what have you learned? How did this jaunt help