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she called “her little mysteries.” One had involved a missing ledger at the lodge. Nora and her ever-present notebook had gone around asking the staff questions, serious in her snooping. It’d been humorous at the time, he admitted, and indeed, she’d located the ledger tucked up high on a kitchen shelf, where a grocer unloading supplies had moved it.
      The second incident had been more critical and occasioned a rebuke from Kate’s boyfriend, Detective Sergeant Ian Travers. A child in their neighborhood had gone missing, and Ian got the call as all four of them were having tea together. Nora immediately brought out her notebook and prepared to dog his tracks.
      “Leave the policing to the professionals, Nora,” he said firmly but kindly when he left.
      Simon remembered Nora had nodded solemnly, but as soon as Ian had gone, she’d decided to walk around the corner to the mother’s house and interview her. “I’m a reporter by training—questioning people is what I do,” she’d said when Simon had tried to stop her. “I might get her to remember something she’s forgotten to tell Ian in her distress.”
      Simon had snorted and given up, and yet again, Nora had prevailed. She’d calmed the hysterical mother down and asked her if anything was missing of the boy’s. The minute the mother saw his favorite rabbit was gone, she knew where he was. He’d been found at The World of Beatrix Potter down on Crag Brow, showing his rabbit to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
      Simon regarded Nora. She liked to snoop and didn’t hesitate to stretch the truth or prevaricate if it served her purpose. So far she’d managed to keep herself out of genuine trouble. But this was Oxford and a real murder. He added “protecting Nora from herself” to his mental list of chores on this trip.

Chapter Five

    “In the study of criminal psychology, one is forced to the conclusion that the most dangerous of all types of mind is that of the inordinately selfish man.”
    — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Strange Studies from Life and Other Narratives

    8 AM

    Declan watched as Watkins guided Val Rogan into the back of the panda car then returned to his side. 
      “What do you think?” Watkins asked.
      “I think Miss Rogan will need to be vetted, Watkins, but with care. We can’t afford to arrest her and blow our hours in custody without firm evidence. We’ll let her make a preliminary statement we can throw back at her later.”
      Declan ran his hand through his crop of thick hair. “McAfee!”
      An eager detective constable ran up the steps. “Sir.”
      Declan suppressed a smile as McAfee almost saluted. “Get the house-to-house started, please.”
      McAfee ran back down the steps to carry out his orders.
      “Let’s go see this lad of your downstairs,” Declan told Watkins, “and find out what he really knows.”
      His sergeant led the way back outside the entrance, opening a small gate in the railing on the side of the stairs and leading the way down four cement steps to a door. “Watkins,” he boomed, knocking on the door.
      It was opened almost immediately by a woman police constable who looked relieved to see them.
      “He said he needs to call the bakery where he works, but you said not to let him use the phone.” The constable stopped just short of whining as the men advanced into the bedsit.
      There was a faint smell of marijuana, but that was not the purpose of this visit, Declan decided as he scanned the flat. It was one large room, with an alcove holding a two-burner hot plate, a microwave on top of a small fridge, and a tiny sink beside it. The one interior door stood ajar, revealing an equally compact bathroom with a shower stall, no tub. A poster of Rowan Atkinson as Mr. Bean was used as a dartboard. The bed had been made up as a daybed, with two long bolsters and several pillows to disguise it, and was covered in a dated brown-plaid Oxfam reject.
      As Declan and Watkins entered, the pale