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returned to his book on Palladian architecture. Since his Venetian journey he had dipped into Ruskin, Henry James and several other writers on the subject of the buildings of that glorious city. Now, he was sharpening his knowledge with books on architecture in general. “This is interesting.”
    “What is?”
    “Palladio thought that on every estate there should be an old ruin.” He stared over his glasses at Agatha.
    “You look quite pale,” she said, by way of answer. “I warned you about taking that trip so soon after that nasty bout of pneumonia.”
    . . . the illness that never was. But Ruthven had done a masterly job of convincing his aunt of its existence during the two weeks when Melrose was supposedly “laid up” before he’d gone to Italy.
    How Melrose longed for those Agatha-less days: for two whole weeks he and Mindy had sat in front of the fireplace dozing, drinking port, eating. Melrose had directed Mindy’s bowl be brought out so she wouldn’t have the bother of taking the long walk to the kitchen.Both of them were besotted with the quiet, the fire, the drinks, the food. Ruthven was delighted to act as general factotum. He made it clear to Lady Ardry that His Lordship was to have no visitors.
    “Not even family? That’s absurd!”
    “Nonetheless, those are the doctor’s orders,” Ruthven had said with his foot in the door.
    “What doctor? The one from Sidbury?”
    “No, madam.” Ruthven paused. “From London. A specialist.”
     • • • 
    Melrose didn’t bother commenting; he continued reading his book.
    “And with Marshall Trueblood, of all people, the silliest person in the village. He’s been a bad influence on you, my dear Plant.” She paused to defrock a fairy cake. “He’s making you silly. You with your aristocratic background—”
    He sighed. “Kindly stop introducing me as the eighth Earl of Caverness, fifth Viscount Ardry, et cetera.”
    He raised his book so he wouldn’t see her.
    “You’re just going through an identity crisis.”
    That was a new one, he thought.
    “—so you’d better take life more seriously.” She sipped her third cup of tea.
    Hell’s bells. He would have to take action just to shut her up. He rose, went across to his desk, took out his keys and used a very small one to open the middle drawer. Inside was a document. Melrose drew it out and returned to his chair, beginning to read the page intently. Occasionally, he would stop and purse his lips. It was a long and addlebrained bunch of nonsense drawn up by Melrose’s ninety-year-old neighbor (acres away) about the branches of His Lordship’s beech trees straggling over the neighbor’s stone wall.
    “What are you reading?”
    “My will.”
    That stopped her hand on its way to the cake plate. “What are you doing that for? Is something wrong? Was that bout of pneumonia more serious than we thought?”
    Did she sound the least bit hopeful? “You told me to take life more seriously; I assume that means death, too.”
    “Really, Plant, you are a ghoul.”
    Melrose frowned at the page. “Humph!”
    “What?”
    “I don’t think Ledbetter is right about that. . . .” He seemed to be speaking to himself.
    “About what? Simon Ledbetter? The Ledbetters have been our family’s solicitors for fifty years.”
    Melrose loved that our. “Precisely.”
    “If I know you, Melrose, you’re probably leaving something to Ada Crisp’s rat terrier.”
    “No. But I am to Ada.”
    “Really, Melrose.” This was accompanied by an artificial little laugh. “And that Withersby person, too, I expect. What are you writing there?” A hint of hysteria crept into her question.
    “Rectifying Simon Ledbetter’s error regarding the bulk of my estate.” He was drawing a cow on the paper.
    She opened her mouth, but before she could gear up again, Ruthven swanned into the room with his whiskey and soda tray and set it within easy reach of the wing chair.
    “Thank you. Perhaps you could get Simon