We drove back to campus to check the library, then back to the Albemarle. This time Francis and I got out of the car and walked around the grounds.

The Albemarle had been built in the nineteenth century, as a retreat for rich convalescents. It was shady and luxurious, with tall shutters and a big, cool porch – everyone from Rudyard Kipling to FDR had stayed there – but it wasn't much bigger than a big private house.

'You tried the desk clerk?' 1 asked Francis.

'Don't even think about it. They're registered under a phony name, and I'm sure Henry gave the innkeeper some story, because when I tried to talk to her the other night she clammed up in a second.'

'Is there any way we can get in past the lobby?'

'I have no idea. My mother and Chris stayed here once. It isn't that big a place. There's only one set of stairs that I know of, and you have to walk past the desk to get to them.'

'What about downstairs?'

'The thing is, I think they're on an upper floor. Camilla said something about carrying bags upstairs. There might be fire stairs, but I wouldn't know how to go about finding them.'

We stepped up onto the porch. Through the screen door we could see a dark, cool lobby and, behind the desk, a man of about sixty, his half-moon glasses pulled low on his nose, reading a copy of the Bennington Banner.

'Is that the guy you talked to?' I whispered.

'No. His wife.'

'Has he seen you before?'

'No.'

I pushed open the door and stuck my head in for a moment, then went inside. The innkeeper glanced from his paper and gave us a supercilious up-and-down look. He was one of those prissy retirees one sees frequently in New England, the sort who subscribe to antique magazines and carry those canvas tote bags they give as gift premiums on public TV.

I gave him my best smile. Behind the desk, I noticed, was a pegboard with room keys. They were arranged in tiers according to floor. There were three keys – 2-B, -C, and -E – missing on the second floor, and only one – 3-A – on the third.

He was looking at us frostily. 'How may I help you?' he said.

'Excuse me,' I said, 'but do you know if our parents have arrived yet from California?'

He was surprised. He opened a ledger. 'What's the name?'

'Rayburn. Mr and Mrs Cloke Rayburn.

'I don't see a reservation.'

'I'm not sure they made one.'

He looked at me over the tops of his glasses. 'Generally, we require a reservation, with deposit, at least forty-eight hours in advance,' he said.

'They didn't think they'd need one this time of year.'

'Well, there's no guarantee that there'll be room for them when they arrive,' he said curtly.

I would have liked to have pointed out that his inn was more than half-empty, and that I didn't see the guests exactly fighting to get in, but I smiled again and said, 'I guess they'll have to take their chances, then. Their plane got into Albany at noon. They should be here any minute.'

'Well, then.'

'Do you mind if we wait?'

Obviously, he did. But he couldn't say so. He nodded, his mouth pursed – thinking, no doubt, about the lecture on reservation policy he would deliver to my parents – and, with an ostentatious rattle, went back to his paper.

We sat down on a cramped Victorian sofa, as far from the desk as possible.

Francis was jittery and kept glancing around. 'I don't want to stay here,' he whispered, his lips barely moving, close to my ear.

'I'm afraid the wife will come back.'

'This guy is from hell, isn't he?'

'She's worse.'

The innkeeper was, very pointedly, not looking in our direction.

In fact, his back was to us. I put my hand on Francis's arm.

I'll be right back,' I whispered. 'Tell him I went looking for the men's room.'

The stairs were carpeted and I managed to get up them without making much noise. I hurried down the corridor until I f saw 2-C, and 2.-B next to it. The doors were blank and foreboding, but this was no time to hesitate. I knocked oil 2-C. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time. 'Camilla!' I said.

At this, a small dog began to raise a racket, down the hall in 2-E. Nix that, I thought, and was about to knock on the third door, when suddenly it opened and there stood a middle-aged lady in a golfing skirt. 'Excuse me,' she said. 'Are you looking for someone?'

It was funny, 1 thought, as I shot up the last flight of stairs, but I'd had a premonition they'd be on the top floor. In the corridor I passed a gaunt, sixtyish woman – print dress, harlequin glasses, sharp nasty face like a poodle – carrying a stack of folded towels.

'Wait!' she yelped. 'Where are you going?'

But I was already past her, down the hall, banging at the door of 3-A. 'Camilla!' I shouted. 'It's Richard! Let me in!'

And then, there she was, like a miracle: sunlight streaming behind her into the hall, barefoot and blinking with surprise.

'Hello,' she said, 'hello! What are you doing here?' And, behind my shoulder, the innkeeper's wife: 'What do you think you're doing here? Who are you?'

'It's all right,' Camilla said.

I was out of breath. 'Let me in,' I gasped.

She pulled the door shut. It was a beautiful room – oak wainscoting, fireplace, only one bed, I noticed, in the room beyond, bedclothes tangled at the foot… 'Is Henry here?' I said.

'What's wrong?' Bright circles of color burned high in her cheeks. 'It's Charles, isn't it? What's happened?'

Charles. I'd forgotten about him. I struggled to catch my breath.

'No,' I said. 'I don't have time to explain. We've got to find Henry. Where is he?'

'Why' – she looked at the clock – 'I believe he's at Julian's office.'

'Julian's:1'

'Yes. What's the matter?' she said, seeing the astonishment on my face. 'He had an appointment, I think, at two.'

I hurried downstairs to get Francis before the innkeeper and his wife had a chance to compare notes.

'What should we do?' said Francis on the drive back to school.

'Wait outside and watch for him?'

'I'm afraid we'll lose him. I think one of us better run up and get him.'

Francis lit a cigarette. The match flame wavered. 'Maybe it's okay,' he said. 'Maybe Henry managed to get hold of it.'

'I don't know,' I said. But I was thinking the same thing. If Henry saw the letterhead, I was pretty sure he'd try to take it, and I was pretty sure he'd be more efficient about it than Francis or me. Besides – it sounded petty but it was true – Henry was Julian's favorite. If he put his mind to it, he could coerce away the whole letter on some pretext of giving it to the police, having the typing analyzed, who knew what he might come up with?

Francis glanced at me sideways. 'If Julian found out about this,' he said, 'what do you think he would do?'

'I don't know,' I said, and I didn't. It was such an unthinkable prospect that the only responses I could imagine him having were melodramatic and improbable. Julian suffering a fatal heart attack. Julian weeping uncontrollably, a broken man.

'I can't believe he'd turn us in.'

'I don't know.'

'But he couldn't. He loves us.'

I didn't say anything. Regardless of what Julian felt for me, there was no denying that what I felt for him was love and trust of a very genuine sort. As my own parents had distanced themselves from me more and more – a retreat they had been in the process of effecting for many years – it was Julian who had grown to be the sole figure of paternal benevolence in my life, or, indeed, of benevolence of any sort. To me, he seemed my only protector in the world.

'It was a mistake,' said Francis. 'He has to understand,' 'Maybe,' I said. I couldn't conceive of his finding out, but as I tried to visualize myself explaining this catastrophe to someone, I realized that we would have an easier time explaining it to Julian than to anyone else. Perhaps, I thought, his reaction would be similar to my own. Perhaps he would see these murders as a sad, wild thing, haunted and picturesque (Tve done everything,' old Tolstoy used to boast, 'I've even killed a man'), instead of the basically selfish, evil act which it was.