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was all.
    I took my cup and wandered through the hall to the front rooms, which I’d seen only in the dark last night. I’d start over as if last night hadn’t happened. I’d collect Toby’s things and pack them up, and then I’d return to Oxford.
    I poked my head into the library and saw no personal effects there. I moved into the mismatched front parlor at the front of the house, taking in the worn rug, the spindly chairs, and the ugly fireplace. There were no personal effects there either, and no wonder; I couldn’t imagine anyone using such an uncomfortable room.
    I was about to move on to the stairs when a movement outside the parlor window caught my eye. I pulled back the curtain and peeked out.
    A large, dark brown sedan was pulling up in front of Barrow House, coming to a stop behind my parked Alvis. The driver’s door opened and a man got out—a long-legged, dark-cloaked man. As I watched, he shut the door of the motorcar and strode toward the house, his chin tilted down, the brim of his hat shading his eyes from view.
    He moved easily, powerfully, clad in a slate gray suit under an overcoat of deep, almost velvety black. There was something almost sinister about the black of that coat and the sharp, low brim of his hat; he made an incongruous figure on a sunny morning in a small English town. As if in answer to this, a cloud dimmed the sun and a gust of wind blew up, swirling the dead leaves in the garden behind him.
    I felt my well-being fade away. The man slowed and raised his head, and the hat brim lifted, revealing a square jaw, a well-shaped mouth, high cheekbones. His eyes were dark, and though he was handsome, there was nothing comforting about that face. It was grave, intelligent, perhaps a little weary, his gaze taking in the house with mechanical precision.
    He’s from the solicitor’s office,
my mind scrambled. But no, he didn’t look the lawyerly type.
The undertaker’s man, then, come to the wrong place.
    Then he saw me watching from the window, and his gaze stopped on me. I felt a flush of awareness and an inexorable drop of dread. The cloud thickened over the sun, the sky darkened further, and he silently touched his hat, then lowered his hand to point at the front door, a request for me to let him in.
    I set down my cup and obeyed, my feet moving before I was even aware of it. As I opened the door, he was coming up the steps, taking them with effortless grace. He reached up and removed his hat as he approached. “Miss Leigh, I presume?”
    “What is it?” I managed. “Just tell me, please.”
    He read my expression and frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    I shook my head. “It’s too late for that. Yes, I am Jillian Leigh. I’ve already worked out that you’re not a solicitor or an undertaker, and that it’s something terribly bad. So just tell me what it is, then, if you would.”
    I had surprised him; he thought this through for a moment, and I realized he was incredibly handsome, and that I was viscerally, almost painfully aware of it.
    “Very well then,” he said at last. “I need to speak to you, if you have a few moments. I’m Inspector Merriken, of Scotland Yard.”

Five
    S cotland Yard?” I stared at him in horror. “What does Scotland Yard want with me?”
    “Perhaps we could discuss that inside.”
    If I slammed the door in his face, perhaps all of this would go away. I bit my lip and looked at him. He waited patiently, his hat in his hand. His gaze traveled over me casually, but I wasn’t fooled.
    “Miss Leigh?”
    I stepped back from the door. “All right. All right then. Please come in.”
    He moved forward and I closed the door behind him. Up close, I could see that his suit was well tailored, his shirt crisp, the tie knotted flawlessly at his throat. A man who dressed with care, then, on whatever an inspector’s salary was. It was easy for him to be sartorially perfect, as he had a frame that would give most men’s tailors fits