For the remainder of the week, Hilary and I spent most of our afternoons poking about in the attics of Kilgram Chase.

There were quite a lot of them located in the four wings of the house, and we ventured into all of them. I had never been up in the eaves before, and I was fascinated by these vast spaces and all that they contained.

Aside from the Victorian steamer trunks in the west-wing attics, we found a variety of other trunks, huge cardboard boxes, and many wooden tea chests stored at the top of the house.

Inside them we discovered a wealth of lovely old things, from more beaded cushions, needlepoint samplers, and a big selection of old linens to china, glass, and all manner of Victoriana: tortoiseshell stud boxes, mother-of-pearl calling-card cases, papier-mâché trays, decorative boxes, and tea caddies.

But no books. No diaries by Lettice Keswick. No copies by Andrew's Victorian ancestor, Clarissa.

On Friday afternoon, Hilary and I were in the north east attic above the library when I stumbled on an old leather trunk. Not quite as large as the other ones we had come across, it was decorated with brass nailheads, now badly discolored, and looked very ancient.

"This might prove to be interesting," I said to Hilary. "But wouldn't you know, it's locked."

"I've got this kitchen knife with me," Hilary answered. "Let me try to prise it open." She came and knelt with me in front of the trunk. She worked away at the lock but was unable to get it to open.

"What about a hairpin?" I suggested. "That sometimes works."

"I don't have one. Do you, Mrs. Andrew?" she asked, looking at my pile of red hair upswept onto the top of my head.

"No, I'm using combs today," I explained. "But there are some pins in my bedroom, I'll rush down and get them."

"Wait a sec. I'll have a go with one of these old keys we found the other day," Hilary replied, pulling a diverse collection of small, very ancient keys out of her apron pocket.'

Selecting one at random, she tried to push it into the lock; it did not fit. After trying a number of others, she finally found one that slid into the lock with ease.

"This just might work," she muttered to herself, twisting the key and jiggling it around. It took a few seconds, and then there was a distinct, if slight, click.

"I think I've done it!" she cried with a triumphant look at me.

"Go on, then, open it," I said.

She lifted the lid, and together we looked inside.

"Books!" I exclaimed, bending over the edge of the leather trunk.

"I'm not going to touch them, Mrs. Andrew; they might be very valuable. I wouldn't want to go and damage one."

"I know what you mean, Hilary." I began to nod to myself as I added, "Maybe we've struck gold."

And we had, as it happened.

The first book I put my hands on turned out to be a treasure indeed, although at first glance it looked like nothing of much importance. Bound in black leather, worn, and torn a bit on the spine, it had a frontispiece written in a hand I instantly recognized. There was no mistaking that elegant, feathery, seventeenth-century script.

Lettice Keswick Her Garden Book, the frontispiece said, and as I turned the pages, I caught my breath in surprise and delight.

Lettice had written a charming little book about the gardens at Kilgram Chase, her gardens: She told how she had planned and designed them, what she had planted, and why. But most important, the book was beautifully illustrated with watercolors and drawings by Lettice herself. In this it resembled the original diary we had come across last November, but there were many more illustrations in this particular book.

Hilary also exclaimed about its beauty when I showed it to her, and she went as far as to say it was better than the diary.

I did not agree. But there was no doubt that Lettice's illustrations of flowers, trees, shrubs, and plants were superb, as were her actual plans of the various gardens.

Investigating the trunk further, I pulled out four other old books, hoping against hope that they were all Lettice's work.

One was bound in purple leather, and it looked a little less scratched and used than the others. I discovered, on opening it, that it was a volume of Victorian recipes. All were written out in Clarissa's wonderful copperplate handwriting, which I had so admired before. There was no doubt in my mind that it was of her own compilation and that it reflected her own tastes in the culinary art.

There was also a cookbook by the prolific Lettice, and this contained all kinds of seventeenth-century recipes, along with household tips and advice on the use of herbs for medicines.

But it was the last two books which thrilled me the most. One was Lettice Keswick's diary for the year 1663; the other was Clarissa's careful copy of it, again written out painstakingly in her unmistakable copperplate. I could hardly wait to read it.

"It's been worth all the hard work this week, Hilary," I said, struggling to my feet and bending down to pick up the books. "These are very special."

"What will Mrs. Keswick do with them, do you think?" she asked, a quizzical expression settling on her face.

"I'm not sure. Probably nothing in the end, because I don't know what she could do, Hilary, to tell you the truth. But they're nice to have, aren't they?"

"Yes. Maybe she'll put them on display, you know, in a glass case, like they do with old books in libraries," Hilary murmured, sounding thoughtful all of a sudden. "Mrs. Keswick has the garden fête for the church every summer. Maybe people could pay something extra to come into the house and see the books. Proceeds to go to the church, of course."

"That's a good idea, Hilary. Clever of you."

Looking pleased at my compliment, she went on more confidently, "There're a lot of people around here would be interested to get a tour of this house, too, but Mrs. Keswick will never open it to the public."

I didn't say anything.

Hilary said, "Well, she wouldn't, would she?"

"I don't know. I'd have to ask her," I said.

After I had had my cup of tea, which Parky usually brought to me at about four-thirty, I went back and sat at the refectory table in front of the soaring, mullioned window. It was a clear, sunny afternoon, and anyway, the light was always good on this side of the library.

I had just begun to read Lattice's diary, which she had started in January of 1663, when the loud shrilling of the telephone made me jump slightly.

Automatically, I reached for it and picked up the receiver.

"Kilgram Chase," I said.

There was the sound of static, and then I heard David's voice saying, "Mal, is that you?"

"Yes, it is," I said and found myself clutching the phone all that much tighter. "Do you have news?"

"DeMarco's done it!" he exclaimed. "He and Johnson arrested the four youths over the weekend. I didn't call you earlier, because I was waiting for further developments, and-"

"Did they do it?" I cut in, my voice rising an octave.

"Yes. DeMarco and Johnson are positive the four of them are the perpetrators. Two sets of fingerprints from the car match those of two of the youths. Another was in possession of the gun, the nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It went to ballistics, and the report is conclusive: It is the gun that was used."

"So they'll go before a grand jury?"

"They have already. DeMarco and Johnson moved with great speed, on Monday. The hearing was yesterday, and the grand jury has voted to indict them on charges of murder in the second degree. They'll be going to trial."

"When will that be?" I asked.

"DeMarco's not sure. The prosecutor has to prepare the case, as I explained to you last week. Bail was denied, naturally. And all four currently are in jail. Which is where they'll spend the rest of their lives. They're not going to get off, I can assure you of that."