"Among other things."

"And he didn't say anything?"

"No, just laughed."

"How many times had you spoken to him prior to that?"

"You mean since Ailsa died? Just once… the night of her funeral." There were slight breaks in his voice, as if his emotions weren't as well under control as he was pretending. "He… phoned at about eleven o'clock to tell me what a bastard I was for giving his name to the police. He said I deserved everything I got… and hoped someone would find a way to pin her death on me. It was very unpleasant."

Mark eyed him curiously. "Did he mention Ailsa?"

"No. He was only interested in lambasting me. It was the usual raking over of history where I'm always at fault… and he never is."

Mark thought back to James's two days of interrogation. "How did he know it was you who named him?"

"I imagine the police told him."

"I wouldn't think so. It was a concern I raised at the time-you were there when I did it-and we were given assurances that neither Leo nor Elizabeth would be told where the suggestion came from. The way Sergeant Monroe put it, close relatives are questioned as a matter of course when death is suspicious, so the issue wouldn't arise."

James hesitated. "Obviously the promises weren't honored."

"Then why didn't Leo call you after the police first visited him? It sounds as if somebody at the funeral said something, and he worked himself into a rage on his way home."

James frowned. "He didn't talk to anyone. He and Elizabeth stormed in and stormed out. That's what set the tongues wagging."

Mark scrolled through his address book again. "I'm going to phone him, James, and I'm applying the same rules as before. You either get out of the car or you keep your mouth shut. Agreed?"

The old man's chin jutted angrily. "Not if you offer him money, no."

"I may have to… so you'd better decide now how badly you want to know who Darth Vader is."

"It's a waste of time," he said stubbornly. "He won't admit to it."

Mark gave an impatient sigh. "All right. Explain some logistics to me. For a kickoff, how did Mrs. Bartlett get in touch with Elizabeth? Even if she had her phone number, which I doubt since Elizabeth's ex-directory, why would Elizabeth answer when she's not answering anyone else? Does she know who the woman is? Did she ever meet her? I can't imagine Ailsa introducing them. She loathed Mrs. Bartlett, and she certainly wouldn't have wanted a gossip finding out about Elizabeth's dirty laundry for fear of it being spread all over the countryside. Did you introduce them?"

James stared out of the window. "No."

"Okay. Well, all the same arguments apply to Leo. As far as I know, he hasn't been back to Shenstead since you paid off his debt-the nearest he's come was Dorchester for the funeral-so how did he meet Mrs. Bartlett? He's also ex-directory, so how did she get hold of his number? How could she write to him if she doesn't know his address?"

"You said he spoke to someone at the funeral."

"I meant it more loosely… on the day of the funeral. It doesn't make sense, James," Mark went on slowly, sorting ideas in his head. "If Leo's Darth Vader, how did he know Mrs. Bartlett was the one to approach? You can't just cold-call people and ask them if they're interested in a hate campaign. Mrs. Weldon was a more obvious choice. At least she's on record as giving evidence against you… but, if she's telling the truth, then she was never even approached…" He fell silent.

"Well?"

Mark picked up his phone again and punched in Leo's mobile number. "I don't know," he said irritably, "except that you're a bloody idiot for letting this go as far as it has. Half of me wonders if this hate campaign is just a fog to get you looking in the wrong direction." He jabbed an aggressive finger at his client. "You're as bad as Leo. You both want total capitulation-but it takes two to fight a war, James, and two to reach an honorable peace."

Message from Nancy

Your phone engaged. Am at the Manor. Where R U?

Bob Dawson's hackles rose as his wife sidled into the kitchen and disturbed his radio listening. It was the only room he could call his own because it was the one Vera usually avoided. Dementia had persuaded her that the kitchen was linked to drudgery, and she only visited it when hunger drove her to abandon the television.

She glared at him as she came through the door, her pinched mouth muttering imprecations that he couldn't hear.

"What's that?" he demanded crossly.

"Where's my tea?"

"Make it yourself," he said, laying down his knife and fork and pushing his empty plate aside. "I'm not your damn slave."

Theirs was a hate-filled relationship. Two solitary people, under a single roof, who could only communicate through aggression. It had always been so. Bob controlled through physical beating, Vera through spite. Her eyes glinted evilly as she noticed an echo of her own oft-repeated martyrdom.

"You've been stealing again," she hissed, clicking onto another well-worn track. "Where's my money? What have you done with it?"

"Wherever you hid it, you stupid bitch."

Her mouth twisted and turned in an effort to translate chaotic thought into speech. "It's not where it should be. You give it back, you hear."

Bob, never a patient man at the best of times, clenched a fist and shook it at her. "Don't you come in here accusing me of stealing. You're the thief in the family. Always have been, always will be."

"It wasn't me," she said obstinately, as if a lie repeated often enough acquired the stamp of truth.

His responses were as predictable as hers. "If you've been at it again since the missus died, I'll fling you out," he threatened. "I don't care how senile you are, I'm not losing my home because you can't keep your fingers to yourself."

"Wouldn't need to worry if we owned it, would we? A real man would have bought his own place."

He thumped his fist on the table. "Watch your mouth."

"Half a man, that's all you are, Bob Dawson. Tough as iron in public. Limp as jelly in bed."

"Shut up."

"Won't."

"Do you want the back of my hand?" he demanded angrily.

He expected her to cower away as usual, but instead a sly smile crept into her eyes.

Oh, good God! He should have known threats alone wouldn't work. He surged to his feet, sending his chair crashing to the floor. "I warned you," he shouted. "Keep away from him, I said. Where is he? Is he here? Is that why we've got gypsies in the Copse?"

"None of your business," she spat. "You can't tell me who I can talk to. I've got rights."

He slapped her hard across the face. "Where is he?" he snarled.

She hunched away from him, hate and malice blazing in her eyes. "He'll get you first. You see if he doesn't. You're an old man. He's not afraid of you. He's not afraid of anyone."

Bob reached for his jacket on a hook beside the sink. "More fool him," was all he said, before going out and slamming the door behind him.

They were fine words, but the reality of the night made a mockery of them. The westerly wind had covered the moon with cloud, and without a torch Bob was virtually blind. He turned toward the Manor, intending to use the drawing-room lights as a guide, and he had time to be surprised that the Manor was in darkness before a hammer hit his skull and the black night engulfed him.