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thing Melrose had learned long ago: Never underestimate his aunt’s skill in ferreting out information. His butler Ruthven was total proof against wiliness, threats, and lies, so Melrose’s whereabouts were safe with him. Might she decide to enlist Momaday’s aid—?
    Another shot rang out.
    He was going to kill someone some day, Momaday was.
    What a lovely fantasy.
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    T he all-clear having been sounded by Ruthven (the old dinner-gong put to this use), Melrose found himself back in the sitting room with the port and walnuts he was sorry he’d left in the first place. Agatha had, of course, left more than one message in his absence, none of which he paid any attention to.
    For now he was much more interested in Richard Jury’s forthcoming visit. And what he would have to say about Jenny Kennington. He felt guilty, he supposed, about that day in Littlebourne, innocent though it had been. Besides that, he’d given rather short shrift to Polly Praed, whom he hadn’t seen in years. He sighed. Was this the sort of man he’d become, ogling every good-looking woman, flitting from one to another like a bee or a butterfly? He sat there feeling morose, picking at the paper napkin beside the dish of walnuts. Finally, he took out his pen and, unfolding the napkin, wrote a list of names:
    VIVIAN RIVINGTON
    POLLY PRAED
    ELLEN TAYLOR
    JENNY KENNINGTON
    MISS FLUDD (NANCY)
    He tapped his pen, thinking for a moment and then added
    BEA SLOCUM
    The nib of his fountain pen caught as he put brackets around Jenny’s name. She should not be on any list of his. Neither should Bea Slocum, if it came to it. So he had written her name very small. She was much too young for him. He looked at Jenny’s name again and, reluctantly, crossed it out.
    On the right-hand side of the napkin he wrote “Comments.” This was always the best way, wasn’t it? Make a list and write down the “fors” and “againsts”? It was supposed to help clear the mind and get one’s perspective right. He had his head in his hands, trying to think what to write down for Vivian (either for or against) and all he could come up with was Count Dracula, her fiancé. Otherwise his mind refused to respond. His concentration on the name Vivian Rivington was so intense that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, and was surprised by Ruthven’s voice.
    â€œIt’s Superintendent Jury, sir,” said Ruthven, from the doorway.
    Melrose started up as Jury came through the door. Even though he didn’t know quite what to say to him, still, he was delighted to see him. “Richard!” They clasped each other’s hands. “But . . . how’ve you been?”
    â€œPassable.”
    â€œGood lord, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you.”
    Jury arched an eyebrow. “Two weeks?”
    â€œYes, well, it seems so long. Let Ruthven get you a drink. Sit down!”
    Jury told Ruthven he’d like some whiskey and sat down opposite Melrose.
    Melrose told Ruthven to top up the decanter and then they wouldn’t have to bother him again. He sat back and allowed himself to hope that the subject of Jenny wouldn’t come up. Stupid. How to avoid her coming up? She was in the thick of a murder investigation.
    But Jury seemed more interested in the paper napkin that Melrose had left on the table, gathering up droplets of condensed water. “What’s this, then?”
    â€œA list.” His hand moved to pick it up but Jury was too quick for him.
    â€œI think I know some of these people,” Jury said, straightfaced. “Not Miss Fludd, though. I don’t know her.”
    Since he didn’t, that subject was at least safe. Melrose expelled his held breath. “A neighbor. You remember Watermeadows—” He cut himself off. Watermeadows had marked an especially unhappy period in Jury’s life. God, talking to