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on toast, a working-class supper. What we want is afternoon tea with scones and cake and little sandwiches and a silver teapot.”
    Lucy was skeptical. “I don’t think we’ll find any establishments like that around here. These places all seem to use paper cups.” She paused, remembering the many British mysteries she’d borrowed from the library, all aged and well thumbed by readers. “There’s a chain called Lyons, or used to be.”
    Sue was thoughtful. “Maybe closer to the hotel,” she said. But when they retraced their route back to the hotel and emerged, panting with exhaustion from the climb out of the Euston Square station, there seemed to be a surprising lack of tearooms. No restaurants at all, in fact, except for a dingy-looking Indian place. Coming to the end of their street, Sue admitted defeat. “How about some curry?” she asked.

    Waking at two in the morning, Lucy tiptoed into the tiny bathroom and dug in her toiletries bag for the roll of antacid tablets she’d brought. She’d enjoyed the spicy Indian food, but now she had a terrible case of heartburn. She crunched a couple of the tablets while she peed, had a drink of water, and went back to bed, hoping she’d look better in the morning than she did now. Her reflection in the mirror over the sink wasn’t encouraging; she had dark circles under her eyes, and she was certain she’d sprouted some new wrinkles.
    Back in bed, she yawned and settled herself for sleep, but sleep didn’t come. She was tired enough; there was no doubt about that. Her legs ached; her arms felt heavy. Every cell in her body seemed to be crying out for rest. All except her brain cells, which were annoyingly active and returned again and again to Temple’s death, producing an image of his blanket-covered body whenever she closed her eyes.
    Turning on her side, she stared at the windows, which were lighter patches of gray in the darkened room. She remembered how nervous she’d been going through security at Logan Airport, even though she’d checked the TSA Web site and packed according to the directions, filling a quart-sized ziplock bag with miniature versions of her favorite toiletries. She’d forgotten the water bottle she had tucked in her travel bag and had been forced to empty it, but the officer had been pleasant about it. George Temple hadn’t been so lucky. The buzzer had sounded when he walked through the metal detector, and he’d actually been taken away by two officers, protesting loudly. “I never saw that before,” he was saying as they hustled him along.
    What on earth had they found? wondered Lucy, now staring at the white glass light fixture that hung from the ceiling, dimly glowing from the reflected light that came through the windows from the street. And what did they do to him? She’d been warned that TSA officers were empowered to conduct strip searches, and she’d made sure not to wear an underwire bra and had chosen elastic-waist pants without a zipper, just to be on the safe side.
    No wonder Temple had seemed flustered when he returned and began rounding up the group and making sure everyone was there. Of course, Will Barfield was late and his mother’s fretting had driven them all to distraction. “This isn’t like him,” she kept saying. “I hope he hasn’t had some sort of accident.”
    By then Temple had begun coughing and sneezing and had used his inhaler at least once. Ann Smith had noticed and urged him to sit down and relax, taking deep regular breaths. He had complied and seemed to be recovering, until she tried to wrap him in her pashmina shawl so he’d be nice and warm. He’d protested and that had started a new fit of coughing.
    Then the gate attendant had announced boarding and there was a great deal of movement, and Lucy lost track of Temple as she waited for her row number to be called. Dr. Cope had been right next to her at one point, she remembered, but if he noticed Temple’s condition, he hadn’t seemed