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    Bon-Bon had once mentioned that Worthington’s top value to her mother was his understanding of bookmakers’ methods, because, as Marigold herself disliked walking along between the rows of men shouting the odds, Worthington got her the best prices. A versatile and compulsive good guy, Worthington, though he didn’t always look it.
    Only Marigold herself was now missing from the sick parade. I asked about her, and the eldest of the children, a boy called Daniel, said she was drunk. She was snoring on the stairs, the elder girl said. So pragmatic, 2000-year children.
    While I peeled myself slowly off the wood blocks Bon-Bon, with annoyance, remarked that her doctor had announced he no longer made house calls, even for those recovering from bereavement. He said all would be well with rest and fluid. “Water,” he’d said.
    â€œGin,” corrected one of the children dryly.
    I thought it scandalous that Bon-Bon’s doctor should have refused to tend her and had a go at him myself. Capitulating with apologetic grace, he promised he would “look in,” New Year’s Day holiday notwithstanding. He hadn’t understood Mrs. Stukely, he excused himself. He didn’t realize she’d been attacked. She’d been partly incoherent. Had we informed the police?
    It did seem obvious that robbery had been the purpose of the mass anesthesia. Three television sets with integral tape players were missing. Bon-Bon had been angry enough to count things.
    Also gone was a separate video player on which she’d been watching Martin, together with dozens of tapes. Two laptop computers, with printers and racks of filing disks, were missing too, but Worthington prophesied that the police would offer little hope of recovering these things, as Martin had apparently not recorded any identifying numbers anywhere.
    Bon-Bon began crying quietly from the strain of it all and it was Worthington, recovering and worth his weight in videotapes, who talked to the overburdened local police station. My constable, Catherine Dodd, he found, was attached to a different branch. Detectives, however, would arrive on the Stukely doorstep soon.
    Not surprisingly, the THOMPSON ELECTRONICS van had gone.
    Marigold went on snoring on the stairs.
    Worthington made calming sandwiches of banana and honey for the children.
    Feeling queasy, I sat in Martin’s black leather chair in his den, while Bon-Bon, on an opposite sofa, dried her complicated grief on tissues and finally gave no complete answer to my repeated question, which was, “What was on the tape that Martin meant to give me after the races, and where did it come from? That’s to say, who gave it to Martin himself at Cheltenham?”
    Bon-Bon studied me with wet eyes and blew her nose. She said, “I know Martin wanted to tell you something yesterday, but he had those other men in the car, and I know he wanted to talk to you without Priam listening, so he planned to take you home last, after the others, even though you live nearest to the racetrack ...” Even in distress she looked porcelain pretty, the plumpness an asset in a curvy black wool suit cut to please a living husband rather than a mourning neighborhood.
    â€œHe trusted you,” she said finally.
    â€œMm. ” I’d have been surprised if he hadn’t.
    â€œNo, you don’t understand.” Bon-Bon hesitated and went on slowly. “He knew a secret. He wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said I would fret. But he wanted to tell someone. We did discuss that, and I agreed it should be you. You should be his backup. Just in case. Oh dear ... He had what he wanted you to know put onto a plain old-fashioned recording tape, not onto a CD or a computer disk, and he did that, I think, because whoever was giving him information preferred it that way. I’m not sure. And also it was easier to play, he said. Better on video than computer because, darling Gerard, you