And what of Hayley? How was it she so closely resembled Kerry Foxton? Was she aware of the similarity? It was too striking to be a matter of chance. Somehow, somewhere, there was a reason for it.

Harding glanced north towards Tresco, distinguishable from the other islands by its central belt of woodland. His memories of exploring the famous Abbey Gardens there with Polly were distinct yet distant, as if he were recalling the experiences of another life, another man. His past was numb, like a frozen limb, his present a labyrinth of contradictions.

Judith Metherell, a briskly mannered woman whose taste in clothes made her look a decade older than Harding suspected she really was, greeted him when he returned to Mercer House. She surprised him by apologizing for mishearing his name over the phone, then went to extricate her husband from his study.

“Glad you made the effort to come over?” Metherell asked as they drove out of town.

“Glad isn’t quite the right word.”

“Kerry Foxton wasn’t murdered, Mr. Harding.”

“I’m happy to believe it.”

“But there’s something else you’re not happy about.”

“True.”

“A passing resemblance that Gabriel Tozer’s housekeeper bears to Kerry.”

“More than passing.”

“Maybe that’s why he chose her.”

“How do you mean?”

“The old boy always had a mischievous streak. He liked to get under people’s skin.”

“Did he really?”

“Yes. And it seems to me he’s still doing it. From beyond the grave.”

It was a twenty-minute flight to Penzance, nothing like sufficient for Harding to decide what his next step should be. Carol’s friendship with Kerry; Kerry’s resemblance to Hayley; his own conviction that he had met Hayley or Kerry-or both, for that matter-before: he was beset on all sides by the inexplicable and the unresolvable.

One problem he no longer had any patience with was Darren Spargo. He did not like being threatened. He did not like it at all. He felt, in fact, very much in the mood to do some threatening of his own. And Morrison’s supermarket was only a short walk from the heliport.

But he was out of luck. The woman at the information desk informed him that Darren no longer worked there. And if she knew where he lived, she was not telling.

Ray Trathen was the obvious source to tap for information about Spargo and much else besides. Harding decided to try the Turk’s Head at Trathen’s usual time. That left him an hour or so to freshen up back at his hotel. Hayley had declined his invitation to dinner and he wondered now if that was because she had known what he would discover during his day trip to Scilly But he wondered also if that was one suspicion too many. He wanted, he needed, to give her the benefit of the doubt.

None of which was any kind of preparation for the news that awaited him at the Mount Prospect.

“You’re a popular man, Mr. Harding,” the receptionist said as she handed him a note with his key.

“Sorry?”

“All these phone calls.”

“Ah.” He glanced at the note and ran his eye down the list of callers. Clive Isbister at 10.38. Barney Tozer at 11.21. Isbister again at 12.08. Barney again at 14.10. Carol at 14.58. Humphrey Tozer at 16.11. And Isbister yet again at 17.02. The message was the same in each case. Please call as soon as possible. He was popular. Or unpopular. What was going on? What could they possibly all want with him?

He phoned Isbister first, judging he might not be available on his office number much longer. And the man himself answered promptly.

“Mr. Harding. At last. Where have you been?”

“Out of town.”

“All day?”

“Yes. Since you ask.”

“Sorry. None of my business, really. I gather from Barney you’ve lost your mobile, so perhaps you haven’t heard what’s happened. Unless you’ve spoken to him since your return, of course.”

“I haven’t spoken to Barney.”

“Ah. I see.”

“What has happened?”

Isbister sighed. “There was a burglary at Heartsease last night, Mr. Harding. A very specific burglary. Just one thing taken. And I expect you can guess what it was.”

“Not… lot six four one?”

“The very same.”

Gabriel Tozer had had a burglar alarm fitted at-Heartsease some years previously, though he had economized by having movement sensors fitted on the ground floor only. Isbister had set the alarm personally on leaving the house at the end of Sunday’s viewing. It had been triggered shortly after nine o’clock that evening. Hayley had phoned the police and been advised not to stir until they arrived. In the event, the police had been unable to find anything amiss, bar an unlatched window in the dining room. They had detected no signs of a break-in.

“It took us some time to notice what had happened ourselves,” Isbister went on. “I thought it prudent to give the house the once-over this morning in view of the alarm going off. We finally discovered the lock on the cabinet containing the ring had been forced, but the doors had been wedged together with a matchstick so it wasn’t immediately obvious. The ring, along with the starburst box, was missing. But nothing else.”

“Nothing at all?”

“We checked exhaustively. It was just the ring he came for.”

“Via the unlatched window.”

“I think that’s how he left, certainly. I’m not sure it’s how he arrived, though. He may have unlatched the window while mingling with the crowds earlier in the day. But he couldn’t have been sure we wouldn’t spot that while locking up. So, another possibility is that he sized up the alarm system, hid somewhere-in the airing cupboard, maybe, or a wardrobe, or even under one of the beds-and waited till it was dark and everything was quiet before helping himself to the ring and leaving through the dining-room window. Going downstairs set off the alarm, of course, but by then it didn’t matter. He had what he wanted.”

“Is that what the police think?”

“They favour the first theory: unlatch the window and come back later. I have the impression they also think it’s possible the ring was stolen during viewing hours and the thief returned during the evening for some more goodies, only to leg it when he set off the alarm. They obviously have a poor opinion of our powers of observation. I can tell you that didn’t happen.”

“Do they have any suspects?”

“I don’t know. Frankly, I doubt they’re entertaining high hopes of finding the culprit. Half of Penzance left their fingerprints around Heartsease over the weekend. Nobody actually saw the burglar. Miss Winter very wisely lay low. A tough case to crack, I’d say.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“No. You don’t want to confess, do you?”

“Me?”

“Just joking, Mr. Harding. You could have bought the ring tomorrow, for a price Barney can readily afford, I’m sure. On the face of it, you’re the last person who’d steal it.”

“Who’s the first person, then?”

“Someone who badly wanted it, but didn’t have the money to pay for it.”

“And who might that be?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Better, I hope, for your sake, if Barney’s still in the mood he was in when I spoke to him this morning. He doesn’t like to have arrangements he makes interfered with. He doesn’t like it at all.”

Isbister was, if anything, understating Barney’s anger at being cheated of the ring, as Harding soon realized when he phoned him.

“What the bloody hell’s going on, Tim?”

“I don’t know. The ring’s been stolen. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Well, it’s not enough. You promised to make sure everything went smoothly.”