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without vomiting either. It’s clear to me why you’re a detective.”
    “Funny. Shall we?” Dorland rattled the key in front of Theo’s face again.
    “Ladies first,” Theo replied.
    “So did SOCO or the other officers find anything? Any other witnesses?”
    “A menagerie of responses from a menagerie of people,” Theo replied. “One, in a group of women, insists she saw a large scary man walk by her house but didn’t know when. That started the group on a tirade of similar stories, each thinking they saw the man but each time the story became a bit scarier and a bit more far-fetched. One man thought it was a woman; two others didn’t know whom it was that lived in the house. And all the children interviewed apparently thought the one-legged man was creepy.”
    Theo followed Dorland into the front hall, where there was a door leading upstairs to the first floor. Theo pushed the key in and turned the handle. The door opened easily, and the musky smell of a flat that hadn’t been occupied, hit them immediately. Dorland took the stairs two at a time.
    Poking his head around the door frame, Dorland looked back at Theo, and said, “I think you’re going to find this interesting.”
    “Does it answer some of our questions?” No reply. Theo bounded up the stairs after him. The entire first floor was one room with a sink and some cupboards in one corner. The room obviously belonged to the deceased. It was incredibly neat. More paintings lined the walls, the same as on the main floor, and one table filled the length of the room. Laid out in ten separate bins were small colored tiles: white, black, red, purple, brown, blue, green, yellow, orange, and gray. Bags of white mortar with a thick layer of dust lay neatly piled below the table.
    “This is obviously where he does his artistic carpentry.” Theo ran his fingers through a tray of red half-inch tiles. “He really is an odd person. One-legged artist. I wonder what will happen to all his art?”
    “Perhaps it is stated in his will. He may have had relatives.”
    “Do you think they’re worth something?”
    “This art?” Dorland laughed. “Although you never know. There are artists I do not like and they make money. Some may actually like what this artist had to offer. Who can say?”
    “We may have to do some further digging to find the answer.”
    The nurse was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they descended. “Was there anything interesting up there?” she asked. “I’ve always wanted to see what he kept up there.”
    “That was his studio, where he created his art. We are looking for any reason he might have been killed this morning. I know you told us that he had no enemies, but did he ever disclose to you what his Last Will and Testament contained or anything that may have been on his mind lately?”
    “No, but I have only been with him for about four months. I try with all my patients to find out as much as I can about their family or past. It makes spending the day with them easier, but Mr. Tipring, he was quiet. Never spoke about his family or friends, ever. No, that is not true. When I asked about the earrings he told me they belonged to his mother. How fond he must have been of her. I’ve never known a man to keep earrings like that. But then again, I’ve never known a man to keep art like that.”
    Ignoring her question, Theo went on, “What about a solicitor? Did he have a solicitor or anyone that handled his personal matters?”
    “I don’t know,” the nurse answered in barely a whisper. “Maybe his last nurse could tell you more.”
    “Do you know her name?”
    “No, but she may have worked at the same agency I work for. A placement agency that matches home care needs with patients. He may have chosen the same agency for his last nurse. I don’t know.” She reached into her purse and handed them a very old card crumpled up in hundreds of tiny folds until it was almost the consistency of toilet tissue. “You can try