It was the same upstairs as down. If anything, the concentration of material was even greater, with toys, models, train sets, coins, banknotes, stamps, postcards, cigarette cards, wrist-watches, pocket watches, musical boxes, snuffboxes, cameos, figurines, compasses, candlesticks and yet more accumulated back copies of magazines-Reader’s Digest, The Countryman, Punch and journals too obscure to be remembered-filling glass-fronted cabinets in all four bedrooms or standing in dusty stacks on the broad landing.

But only one cabinet, in only one bedroom, interested Harding. It contained tie-pins, cufflinks, signet rings, a couple of silver cigarette cases, a baffling number of hourglasses and… a small box decorated with radiating panels of black and white, the lid standing open to reveal its contents, nestling on a bed of satin: a gold ring with an emerald set within a circle of diamonds.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

Harding looked round to find, standing close beside him, a representative of the auctioneers, identified by a badge pinned prominently to his lapel. He was a big, bluff, tweed-suited fellow with thinning fair hair, beetling eyebrows and a broad, yellow-toothed grin. And according to the badge he was none other than Clive Isbister, auctioneer-in-chief.

“I can open the cabinet if you want to take a closer look.” “That’s all right. Don’t bother. I, er… see you’re Clive Isbister.”

“For my sins, yes.”

“I’m a friend of Barney Tozer. I gather-”

“You wouldn’t be Mr. Harding, would you?”

“Yes. Tim Harding.” They shook hands. “How did you-”

“I spoke to Barney on Wednesday when he set up an account for the auction. He mentioned a Tim Harding would be attending on his behalf. Then there was his brother Humphrey paying that particular ring a lot of attention earlier today. And now you, sporting a tan that clearly isn’t the product of a Cornish winter. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Harding laughed. “Going well, is it-the viewing?”

“Bit of a nightmare in some ways, to be honest, but it’s much the best way to stimulate interest.”

“I think I might know what you mean about nightmares. I met a bloke called Trathen on my way in.”

“Ray Trathen?” Isbister winced. “Bad luck. I’m sorry for Ray of course. He and I were at school together. But he’s his own worst enemy.”

“You were at school with Barney as well, weren’t you?”

“Yes. That’s right. I expect that’s why Barney gave Ray a job a few years back. For old times’ sake. It didn’t work out, I’m afraid. Most things don’t in Ray’s life. Excuse me, will you? One of my colleagues is waving rather frantically at me. Probably another breakage. Just as well there’s so much here, hey? I don’t think you’ll have any serious trouble getting the ring, by the way. It’s a lovely piece, but sadly not fashionable. And fashion is all in this business, as in most others. See you on Tuesday, no doubt.”

Harding had been tempted to ask Isbister how much he knew about Gabriel Tozer’s alleged theft of the ring. Yet perhaps, he reasoned, it was best he had not had the chance to do so. It did not really matter, after all, given the apparent confidence of all concerned that it would not be leaving the Tozer family.

Looking at the ring, its emerald and surrounding diamonds glittering in the light of the overhead lamp, switched on so that the contents of the cabinet might be seen to their best advantage, Harding could not help but feel it was too small and trifling an object to justify a feud of several decades’ standing, however valuable it might be. But a ring could have a symbolic as well as a monetary value. So could a starburst box, come to that. There was something about this ring in this box that mattered to Humphrey Tozer and had mattered to his Uncle Gabriel. As for Barney, Harding was unsure. The indifference could have been sham, the willingness to delegate responsibility a ploy of some kind.

Not that it really mattered. Harding had agreed to do Barney this favour and it would not take much to see it through. He had promised to keep an eye on Humphrey but proposed to do the bare minimum in that direction. He would bid as high as he needed to to secure Lot 641 at the auction, however. And then, he told himself, he would fly home and forget all about it.

After a mooch round the other bedrooms, Harding felt he had seen enough. Spectating at the avaricious mass scrutiny of a dead man’s belongings rapidly palled. He sensed that Gabriel Tozer had been an obsessively private man. It was strange, then, and faintly obscene, that his goods and chattels should be priced and tagged and fingered by dozens upon dozens of strangers. Harding headed downstairs.

He was most of the way down when he noticed a young woman crossing the hallway from the direction of the conservatory. She was conspicuous because she was wearing a short, belted mac, had a small rucksack slung over one shoulder and was also carrying a well-filled canvas bag. She was petite, almost elfin, with boyishly cropped dark hair, and still darker eyes set saucer-like in a delicate, heart-shaped face.

Harding stopped dead at the sight of her and she glanced up at him as he did so, then slipped a key out of the pocket of her mac, unlocked the door marked private and stepped through out of sight, closing it behind her.

Harding leant back against the newel post behind him as other people moved past. There had been no recognition in the young woman’s glance; not so much as a flicker. But he recognized her. There was no doubt of that in his mind. He recognized her, even though, for the moment, he could not place her, could not fix her in his memory, could not put a name to a face he felt disablingly certain he knew very well.

Harding drifted from one ground-floor room to another, paying the sale lots no attention but probing his memory for the identity of the young woman he had just glimpsed. The answer was bound to come to him soon, he reasoned. But it refused to. It hovered tantalizingly at the very edge of his mental vision, out of focus and reach. It was there, but he could not grasp it.

Tiring of his own unaided efforts, he went out to the conservatory and asked the cloakroom attendant who she was.

“That’s Hayley Winter,” the man replied. The name failed to jog Harding’s memory. “She’s the late Mr. Tozer’s housekeeper. She lives in the basement.”

“I thought Gabriel Tozer lived alone.”

“I believe he took her on a year or so ago. Needed help around the place as his health began to fail, I suppose. Anyway, she’s staying on until the house is sold, as far as I know.”

“How would I… get to speak to her?”

“There are steps from the patio down to a separate entrance. Just… ring the bell.”

Harding had not noticed the existence of a basement on his way in, though its windows were obvious enough when he left the house and headed round to the rear. He passed the garage on his way, where yet more lots were on display-lawn-mower, gardening tools and a big old Mercedes. The garden itself was overgrown and neglected, ornamental shrubs engulfed by straggling thorns and rampant weeds. These had colonized much of the patio as well. It certainly did not look as if Gabriel Tozer had been in the habit of taking tea there on sunny afternoons.

Steps led down, as promised, to a narrow, deeply shadowed basement area. As he descended, Harding felt nervous as well as puzzled. The name Hayley Winter meant nothing to him. Yet he knew her. He was certain of that. But how? Still his mind could not fix upon the answer.

The paint was peeling on the basement door. Dust layered the hexagonal frosted-glass window set in it. He hesitated for a second before prodding at the bell-push.

A few moments passed, then the door opened and Hayley Winter gazed cautiously out at him. Close to, she seemed even smaller than she had looked from the stairs, plainly dressed in jeans and sweater, her face a barely made-up. The familiarity of her face struck him more acutely than ever. But still he could not place it.