Rory was still a little drunk by the time he returned to Bleeding Heart Square. He wasn’t so far gone that he was incapacitated, either mentally or physically, but he was saturated with the fuzzy self-confidence that whisky brings, and as yet had little trace of the hangover that might follow. It wasn’t just the whisky that was affecting him. It was also the possibility of work, real work. A connection with a magazine like Berkeley’s could make all the difference. It might even be possible, using that as a springboard, eventually to make a living as a freelance, which was his real ambition. At this moment even Julian Dawlish seemed not such a bad fellow. After all, the chap could hardly be blamed for falling in love with Fenella, if that was in fact what had happened. They had arranged to meet on Friday evening to confirm the details for Saturday.

At the corner, Rory paused. There were people drinking in the Crozier. He heard a loud yapping at knee level and looked down. Nipper had been attached to the old pump with a piece of string. Howlett was visible through the window of the lounge bar, and his top hat was resting on the window ledge.

Rory bent down and scratched Nipper behind the ears, which seemed to please him. He rubbed the dog’s neck, pushing his fingers under the collar. It was rather a handsome collar, or at least it had been, with a tarnished brass buckle and little brass stars set into the strap. There were footsteps behind him. He gave the dog a last pat and straightened up. Mrs. Renton, laden with a shopping basket, was coming up the alley from Charleston Street.

“Good afternoon,” Rory said, cheerfully. “Let me carry that.”

“Thank you.” She held out the basket and he took it from her.

Nipper strained toward her, his tail wagging and his yapping intensifying.

“Oh stop it, do,” Mrs. Renton said and backed away from him. She made a semicircular detour around the pump, keeping her distance. “Nasty thing.”

“He’s all right,” Rory said. “I think he’s pretty harmless, really.”

Mrs. Renton shook her head. “I can’t abide dogs. You can’t trust them, not really. They’ll go with anyone who feeds them.”

She set off toward the house. Nipper backed away, squatted, and scratched vigorously behind his left ear with a hind leg. Fleas, probably, Rory thought. Behind him there was the ring of a bicycle bell and one of the mechanics at the workshop at the end of the square cycled past. It was the conjunction of those two factors, the bicycle and the dog scratching its ear, that collided with a third item that was lying like an unexploded bomb in his memory.

Mrs. Renton was unlocking the door of the house. “Are you coming, Mr. Wentwood?” she called. “I haven’t got all day, you know.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear me. A fall? How very unfortunate.”

Lydia stripped off her ruined gloves. “No bones broken. It was all my fault. Luckily Mr. Serridge came to my rescue.”

Cheerfulness broke like sunshine across Mr. Gladwyn’s round, red face. “Serridge-yes. One of nature’s gentlemen. Rebecca, take Mrs. Langstone upstairs and see what you can do to help.”

Lydia held up her arms as Rebecca helped her out of her coat. “Is Mrs. Alforde back?”

“No-she’s still at Mrs. Narton’s, I presume.” Mr. Gladwyn gnawed his lower lip. “She wouldn’t want us to wait for her, I’m sure, especially in the circumstances. You’ll need something to sustain you, Mrs. Langstone. As soon as you are ready, we shall have tea.” He glided into his study to wait for it.

“This way, madam.” Rebecca led Lydia toward the stairs. “I’ll see what I can do with the coat while you’re having your tea.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’m not sure there’s much we can do with the gloves,” Rebecca said as they climbed the stairs.

“Throw them away.” Lydia wondered how long she would have to work at Shires and Trimble to earn enough for another pair of gloves like that.

Rebecca showed her into a guest bedroom with its own washbasin. Lydia removed her hat and stared at her pale face in the mirror above the taps. How on earth had that smear of mud arrived on her nose? Rebecca brought towels and a flannel. She murmured that the WC and bathroom were next door.

Lydia turned on the hot tap and picked up the flannel. “Rebecca?”

“Yes, madam?”

“I went to the little barn.” She watched the maid’s face in the mirror. “The one you can see from the lane. Where Amy Narton died.”

Rebecca’s face remained blank and faintly disapproving, the face of a well-trained servant.

“I didn’t fall over,” Lydia went on, turning off the tap. “Someone shut me in. They wedged the door closed with a bit of piping. That’s how I ruined the gloves, by picking up a brick and hammering on the door.”

“Oh, madam,” Rebecca said. “Shall I ask Mr. Gladwyn to call the police?”

“That depends. I think I know who did it, you see.” Lydia rubbed at a smear of mud that had unaccountably appeared on her cheek. “There was a fresh footprint in the mud underneath where the piping was lying. Someone with small feet. A child, probably.” She rinsed the flannel and wrung it out. “So that means it was almost certainly Robbie.”

The color slipped away from Rebecca’s face. But most of all Lydia noticed her eyes, the way they moved to and fro, looking for something that couldn’t be found. It was a miserable business, bullying someone, which was what this came down to.

“What-what do you know about Robbie, madam? You do mean my nephew?”

“Yes. I know that you’re fond of him. And I know that the barn is a special place because no one else normally goes there, even Mr. Serridge. Perhaps especially Mr. Serridge.”

“Did Mrs. Alforde tell you, madam?”

“Not about Robbie. Mr. Wentwood did. As it happens, he’s a friend of mine.”

Rebecca let out her breath but said nothing.

Lydia picked up the towel and turned to face her. “It’s all right. I don’t want to make life difficult for Robbie. Or for you. But I thought you should know what happened. And there’s something else: Mr. Serridge said the barn was dangerous. He’s going to have it pulled down.”

“I’m so sorry, madam. I just don’t know what to say. If Mr. Gladwyn hears that-”

“There’s no reason why he should,” Lydia interrupted.

“You see, he’s so funny about that barn and the skulls. Robbie, I mean. They’re…they’re special.”

“His private Golgotha?”

For the first time Rebecca smiled, as one woman to another. “Yes. Mr. Wentwood told you about that.”

Lydia turned back to the basin and buried her face in the flannel again. Afterward she said, “You’d better warn Robbie. He’ll want to move his skulls.”

“There’s no harm in them,” Rebecca said, as though Lydia had said something quite different. “It’s just that they’re like toys to him. Or even friends. He was that upset when one of them went. I don’t know what he’d do if they all did.”

“When he lost the goat’s skull?”

The maid nodded. “He thinks it was old Narton.”

“Hold on.” Lydia dried her face again and sat down at the dressing table. “Sergeant Narton? When?”

“I’m not sure. Robbie’s not very good with time. Must have been only a few days before he died.”

“Are you sure he meant Narton?”

“Yes. He saw him coming out early one morning. He didn’t dare go up to him. Narton hit him once.”

Lydia picked up the hairbrush. “Robbie told you all this?”

The maid hovered at Lydia’s shoulder. “He can speak more than you’d think, madam. It’s just that he doesn’t like doing it with strangers and it takes a bit of practice to understand what he’s saying.” She bent closer. “Are you really not going to do anything?”

“About Robbie this afternoon? Of course not.” For a moment she thought the maid was about to burst into tears. “It didn’t matter.”

“Thank you. He was a bit funny today, you know, a bit over-wrought. That must have been why he shut you in. He probably thought you were after the other skulls.”