"What else did you notice about the young man?"

"He was tall, and on the slender side, I think. It's hard to tell with a coat, and the snow…"

"Did you see his face well enough that you'd recognize him again?"

"I don't know." Mrs. Du Ray seemed distressed. "I'd not want to accuse someone unfairly."

"I wouldn't worry about that at the moment," Kincaid assured her. "It sounds very much as if Mr. Arrowood was already dead. It was after this that you rang the police?"

"Well, no. I had to be sure, you see. I dressed and went out to look for myself… Poor Karl… There was so much blood." She looked up at them in appeal. "Why would someone do such a terrible thing?"

Kit lay awake for a long time after Duncan and Gemma left, listening to the rhythm of Toby's breathing. Tess was curled up at his feet, and after a few minutes, Geordie padded upstairs and jumped up on the bed, stretching out against his thigh. Resting his hand on the dog's head, Kit snuggled further down into the bedclothes and told himself he should be content. It was Christmas, after all… It was snowing… He was part of a family again…

But he had dreamed of his mother, and as hard as he tried during the day not to think of her, now his mind refused to let her go.

Had she known the poem Duncan had read tonight? It was the sort of thing she would have liked, of that he was sure, with the sound of the words making pictures that went along with the meaning.

Had his mum and Duncan celebrated Christmases together? He'd never thought much about the time they'd spent together before he was born- it made him feel decidedly odd- but now he worried at it. They had loved one another, he supposed. They had been married, had meant to be a family, but something had gone wrong. If his mum and Duncan had stayed together, would she still be alive?

He didn't want to think about that. Then Duncan wouldn't be with Gemma, and Kit genuinely loved Gemma, although even admitting that to himself made him feel disloyal to his mother.

Stroking Geordie's silky muzzle, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to picture the snow swirling outside, but instead remembered the last time it had snowed in Grantchester. Near their house, a gentle hill sloped down to the towpath beside the river. He and his mum had sledded down on baking pans, shouting and tumbling off together at the bottom. Her face had glowed pink with cold and happiness, and he remembered how her laughter had rung out in the clear air.

But what he recalled most was the moment they had stood at the top of the hill, holding their baking pans, looking down at the white blanket enveloping the familiar folds and hollows. The pristine expanse was undisturbed, except for the tiny, three-toed track of a bird, as sharp and crisp as a hieroglyphic, and the tidy paw prints of a cat, or fox, near the hedgerow.

Kit had stood, transfixed, and it seemed to him that to make a mark upon such beauty was more than he could bear. Then his mother had called out for him to join her.

He'd put aside his hesitation and plunged out into the snow, and it had been a good time, one of the best. With that thought, he fell asleep.

According to Dr. Ling, Arrowood had been dead several hours, but she would have to use calculations involving air temperature and environmental factors to be more precise. Nor could she give them any immediate guess as to the nature of the weapon until she had cleaned up the corpse- the wounds were simply too much of a mess.

She did speculate, however, that unlike his wife, Arrowood might have lived for some time after the attack, too weak from loss of blood to do more than make a futile attempt at getting help.

None of this came as any surprise to Kincaid and Gemma. Adding to their frustration, the crime-scene officers reported no evidence of disturbance inside the house. The front door had been locked, and Arrowood's keys had been found in the drive a few feet from his body, as if he'd dropped them in the struggle.

When the responding officers arrived, they had indeed found the driver's door of the Mercedes ever so slightly ajar, and the dome lamp burning.

"He must have been jumped just as he opened the door," Kincaid said as they shed their coats in the warmth of Gemma's office.

"If that door had been closed properly, he might have lain there, covered in snow, until someone missed him."

"Apparently, since it looks as though Mrs. Du Ray's creeping figure didn't feel inclined to call for help."

"It must have been Alex Dunn," said Gemma. "The description fits him to a tee. And it means he can't have murdered Karl, if he found him already dead-"

"What if he fought with him, then came back to see if he'd been successful?"

"Then why run away, as if he were frightened by what he'd found?" argued Gemma.

"I don't see that we can get much further until we've had a word with Dunn. Why don't we send a car to bring him in, and get a forensics team started on his flat?"

"I demand my solicitor," Gavin Farley snarled as they entered the Spartan confines of the interview room, with its metal-and-laminate table and molded plastic chairs. "I'm not saying anything without my solicitor here." His hair was uncombed, and although he'd pulled on jacket and trousers, he still wore a purple satin pajama shirt, which detracted considerably from his authority.

"Surely there's no need for that," rejoined Gemma mildly. "We only want to ask you a few routine questions."

"And for that you drag me out of bed with my wife, in the middle of the night, and you frighten my children half to death? I'm telling you I won't have it. I want my solicitor." Farley folded his arms across his purple satin chest and glared.

Gemma sighed and summoned a constable. "Please take Mr. Farley to phone his solicitor, then bring him back here."

As soon as the door closed, Kincaid said, "Can't say I blame the chap. I've seldom had less reason to roust a man from his bed on Christmas Eve."

"And what about the shower in his shop, and his lying about his row with Dawn?" countered Gemma. "Besides, I think he's cleverer than he'd like us to believe."

Escorted by the constable, Farley came back in, a smug look on his face. "My solicitor's on his way. You'll have to wait until he gets here."

"Fine." Kincaid smiled at him and relaxed into his chair. "Can we get you anything? A coffee?" When Farley shook his head, Kincaid continued, "There's no reason we can't get acquainted while we wait, is there, Mr. Farley? I hear you're quite an expert in woodworking. Is this a longtime passion of yours?"

The struggle between caution and pride was evident in Farley's expression, with pride the winner. "Since I was a boy. My father had a little shop. My own son, unfortunately, only seems to be interested in videos and computer games. No respect for the handicrafts these days."

"Is it animals you carve? With such firsthand experience-"

"No, no. I need a complete break from work; otherwise, the stress…" He shrugged, as if Kincaid would understand his predicament. Just out of Farley's line of sight, Gemma rolled her eyes.

"I've never quite managed a hobby, myself," Kincaid admitted. "But it must be very nice to get away from it all, have one's own space."

"No way." The veterinarian pinched his lips together and set his jaw in a stubborn line. "I see what you're doing, and I'm not going to talk about my shop."

"Then what about the thefts from your surgery, Mr. Farley?" Kincaid inquired, all innocence. "Surely you want the help of the police with that? I understand you have some supplies and medications missing?"