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crops, but for now the countryside remained sedate. He recalled from his long-ago studies of Old English — or was it Old Norse? — that “bosk” meant “a grove of trees”; perhaps so, but the forests had been cut back for tillage centuries ago. There was little new or leafy about New Bosk.
    They decided that in the interest of keeping interaction with the Carpenters low-key, Tommy would leave Peter to deal with the family alone. Nonetheless, Tommy gave him a pointed look as they entered the town.
    â€œWe’re all right, then?”
    Both policemen knew that the brother, Joe, had threatened Frank Counter and Bartleben’s aide over the phone. Tommy Verden was armed. Peter Cammon wasn’t, but he had handled a thousand difficult witnesses in the past and he felt no worry.
    â€œI’ll need a Batemans ale afterwards,” he said as he climbed out of the Mercedes in front of the Carpenters’ address.
    Tommy drove off. They had their plan. Tommy would circle back for Peter in exactly one hour. Another hour after that for lunch, and they could make it back to Peter’s cottage by nightfall. They would manage their report to Bartleben from the car.
    The house was part of an undistinguished row of red-brick units, their front doors only a foot or two from the paved lane. There was no one about, the sun having beaten everyone indoors. N. 628 had no knocker. Standing out on the street, Peter rapped on the door panel before noticing a sign that read: “ENTER BY BACK LANE,” with an arrow pointing to the right. Peter waited, baking in the sun. The lace curtain in the front window parted and a woman held up a palm to hold him there. A few seconds later — as if the woman had rushed to head him off from knocking again — the front door opened on silent hinges.
    She was about twenty-eight, maybe a year or two older, and gave off an efficient, if downtrodden, impression; Peter’s mother would have called her “one of those buried beauties” (although that had been one of his mother’s sly ways of slandering the Irish). The woman wore a black skirt and crisp white blouse, as if she knew a guest was coming; her skin was pallid and she wore her hair in a tight bun. Her smile was tentative. She clearly understood that he represented the police.
    â€œI’m sorry, sir,” she said. There was nothing to be sorry for and Peter hastened to reassure her.
    â€œPardon me, I’m a colleague of Jack’s. Chief Inspector Cammon. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, I didn’t see the sign in time.”
    This was the younger sister. She had manners, in the way that the supportive junior child taking care of a parent usually does; Peter knew that the father had died twenty years ago and that the brother, age thirty-two, lived in the house as well. She opened the front door wide and welcomed Peter inside before locking the door firmly behind her.
    â€œPlease come in,” she said, hesitating on the entrance mat. The front room was dark and still, and Peter was forced to move farther into the space. “My name is Carole, with an ‘e.’”
    Carole turned and tapped superstitiously on the door. She spoke in a lilt that was as much Irish as Lincolnshire. “Do you know the tradition, Chief Inspector?”
    Peter was happy to keep everything friendly. “No, I haven’t heard it.”
    â€œNow then, the Lincolnshire tradition is to only use the front door for a new baby, for a new bride, or for a coffin.”
    Peter smiled and came farther into the living area. The mention of coffins might have hung heavily in the musty room but old Mrs. Carpenter entered at that point and immediately took the talk in another direction. She was thin and creaky but self-propelled, and she crossed the Persian carpet to place her hand on Peter’s arm before Carole could waylay her.
    â€œMontreal!” the old woman burst out, and with that single