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them. I have a friend who lives in Northants who’s an appraiser, though.”
    â€œDon’t tell my husband or he’ll have him down here in a heartbeat.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œHe threatened once he was going to sell off the cold ladies.”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThis lot.” She looked back at the marble statues. “That’s what I call them, ‘the cold ladies.’ ”

4
    T he day was cold and monochromatic, which suited Melrose Plant perfectly, for he wanted to brood. As much as he looked forward to seeing Richard Jury, Melrose simply couldn’t think of the right approach to take regarding Jenny Kennington.
    For the last twenty minutes or so he’d been walking through the grounds of Ardry End, pondering the call from Jury, and was now surprised to find himself far from his house in a stand of sycamore trees that were part of the woods Ardry End shared with Watermeadows. Difficult to know where one stopped and the other started. He stopped and looked at Watermeadows through the openings in the trees and thought of Miss Fludd. For the last couple of days, he’d been almost wholly caught up in this Lincolnshire business, but she’d been tucked away behind some door in his mind which she only occasionally opened to see if he was occupied—He was? And the door closed softly again.
    He shook his drooping head.
    A shot rang out.
    Melrose turned quickly: what the devil? He thought he’d caught a glimpse of a dark-coated figure making a dash through those pines over there. He knew who that was, all right. It was Mr. Momaday, Ardry End’s self-appointed “groundskeeper.” The man had actually been hired to do what gardening there was; but Momaday insisted on calling himself “groundskeeper.” He’d done precious little “keeping” if one were to judge from the weedy flowerbeds and the untrimmed herbaceous borders. What Momaday did do was patrol the grounds like some damnedNazi and let off salvos at squirrels, rabbits, pheasant—whatever came within his gunsights. Melrose had told him to stop it. He did not believe in shooting for sport, and the Ardry End larder provided enough food that they didn’t need to kill it on the hoof or on the wing. But the property was so extensive that Momaday knew he could blast away without anyone’s being the wiser, since Melrose rarely roamed his distant acres or sought shelter in his darkling wood.
    Fortunately for the animal life, the man was a wretched shot. Melrose had decided the only way Momaday would ever pick off squirrel or rabbit was if one was bent on suicide and strode purposefully into the gunman’s path, shouting, “Come on, Momaday, you’d be doing me a favor, man!” Only then would he (who seemed to consider himself a killing machine) bag any game.
    Melrose sighed and continued his walk. He was not sure why walking in the open air was more conducive to sorting things out than sticking to one’s armchair and fireplace and port. Perhaps the thoughts themselves being punishing, the body must follow suit. Thus a frigid, sunless day was a better environment for troubled thoughts than a soft, sunny one. One must dress for the occasion, too. Stout boots were a must, and his green Barbour jacket. And it was always a point scored if one were to carry a shotgun broken over one’s arm. Mr. Momaday had the only shotgun, though, and he was using it.
    He stopped to inspect a tiny white flower, a mere drop of a flower, and wondered if it was a snowdrop. The name made sense. A bit farther along, he paused to run his finger along a long tendrily vine growing up the side of a tree. Was it ivy? Most vines were, so he left it at that and went back to brooding over Jury’s impending visit.
    The next moment he heard his name— “Melrose!” —being bruited about in the dim distance. He knew it was Agatha, no doubt come for her tea. There was one