She had read that he was fifty-two, but from a newspaper photograph she had no idea whether he was tall or short, dark or medium of coloring.

“If I were to look for him in a crowd, how would you describe him?” she asked.

Juno thought for a moment. “Military,” she answered, certainty in her voice. “There was a kind of power in him, as if he had tested himself against the greatest danger he knew and found he was equal to it. I don’t believe he was afraid of anyone. He… he never showed off, if you know what I mean. That was one of the things Martin most admired about him.” Again her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked them away with annoyance. “I respected it too,” she added quickly. “It was a kind of strength of character that is unusual, and both frightening and attractive at the same moment.”

“I think I understand,” Charlotte said thoughtfully. “It makes people seem invulnerable, a little different from ourselves. Well, from me, anyway. I catch myself talking too much now and again, and I know it is the need to impress.”

Juno smiled, her face suddenly warm and alive. “It is, isn’t it! Because we know our own weaknesses, we think other people can see them also.”

“Was he tall?” Charlotte realized suddenly that she was speaking in the past tense, as if he were already dead, and he was not. Somewhere he was alive, sitting in a cell, probably at Newgate, waiting the legal three Sundays before he could be hanged. The thought made her feel sick. What if they were all wrong, and he was innocent?

Juno was unaware of what was in Charlotte ’s mind, even of the change inside her.

“Yes, far taller than Martin,” she replied. “But then Martin wasn’t very tall, only an inch or two more than I.”

There was no reason why she should be, but Charlotte was startled. She realized she had formed a picture of him quite differently. If there had been a photograph in the newspapers, she had not seen it.

Perhaps Juno noticed her surprise. “Would you like to see him?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes… please.”

Juno stood up and opened a small, rolltop desk. She took out a photograph in a silver frame. Her hand was shaking as she held it out.

Charlotte took the picture. Had Juno kept it in the desk to avoid draping it in black, as if to her he were still alive? She would have done the same thing. And the unbearableness of Pitt’s being dead washed over her in a wave so immense for a moment she was dizzy with it.

Then she looked at the face in the frame. It was broad-boned, with a wide nose and wide, dark eyes. It was full of intelligence and humor, almost certainly a quick temper. It was vulnerable, the face of a man with profound emotions. He and Adinett might have had many interests in common, but their natures, as far as one could read, were utterly different. The only link was a bold, direct stare at the camera, the sense of dedication to a purpose.

Martin Fetters might also have made people uncomfortable, but it would be by his honesty, and she imagined he was a man who inspired deep friendship.

She gave it back with a smile. He was unique. She could think of nothing to say that would help the pain of his loss.

Juno replaced the picture where she had found it. “Do you want to see the library?” It was a question with many layers of meaning. It was where he had worked, where his books were, the key to his mind. It was also where he had been killed.

“Yes, please.” She rose and followed Juno into the hall and up the stairs. Juno stiffened as she approached the door, her shoulders square and rigid, but she grasped the handle and pushed it open.

It was a masculine room, full of leather, strong colors, walls lined with books on three sides. The fireplace had a brass fender padded in green leather. A tantalus stood on the table by the window, and there were three clean glasses.

Charlotte ’s eyes went to the large chair nearest the corner opposite and to the left, then to the smoothly turned polished ladder pushed hard up against the shelves. It was only three steps high, with a long central pole to hold on to. It would be necessary to use it in order to reach the top shelves, even for a tall man. If Martin Fetters had been little more than Juno’s height, he would have had to stand on the top step to see the titles on the uppermost shelf. This made it seem all the more unlikely that he would have kept his most frequently used books there.

She turned to the big chair, which was now placed some six feet from the corner and facing the center of the room. Given the position of the window, and the gas brackets on the wall, it was the obvious situation in which to have it in order to read.

Juno followed her thoughts. “It was over here,” she said, pushing her weight against it and heaving it until it was only three feet from the shelves and the wall. “He was lying with his head behind it. The steps were there.” She pointed to the far side.

Charlotte went to where his head must have been, squeezing behind the chair on her hands and knees. She turned to look towards the door, and could see nothing of that entire wall. She stood up again.

Juno was regarding her gravely. There was no need for either of them to say that they believed it had happened as Pitt had said and the jury had accepted. Any other way would have been awkward and unnatural.

Charlotte looked around the room more closely, reading the titles of the books. All those on the most easily accessible shelves were on subjects she realized after several minutes held one train of characteristics in common.

Farthest away from the most worn chair were books on engineering; steel manufacture; shipping; the language, customs and topography of Turkey in particular, and the Middle East in general. Then there were books on some of the great ancient cities: Ephesus, Pergamon, Izmir, and Byzantium under all its names from the Emperor Constantine to the present day.

There were other books on the history and culture of Turkish Islam: its beliefs, its literature, its architecture and its art from Saladin, in the Crusades, through the great sultans to its current precarious political state.

Juno was watching her.

“Martin began traveling when he was building railways in Turkey,” she said quietly. “That was where he met John Turtle Wood, who introduced him to archaeology, and he found he had a gift for it.” There was pride in her voice and a softness in her eyes. “He discovered some wonderful things. He would show them to me when he brought them home. He would stand in this room holding them in his hands… he had beautiful hands, strong, delicate. And he’d turn them ’round slowly, touching the surfaces, telling me where they were from, how long ago, what kind of people used them.”

She took a deep, shaky breath and continued.

“He would describe all he knew of their daily life. I remember one piece of pottery. It wasn’t a dish, as I thought at first; it was a jar for ointment. It was fanciful, perhaps, but as I looked at him, his face so full of excitement, I could see a real Helen of Troy, a woman who fired men’s imaginations with such passion two nations went to war for her, and one of them was ruined.”

Charlotte was angry for Pitt, and for the injustice that men she could not even name had the power to take so much from him. Now she was also touched with the reality of the loss of a man who had been loved, who was full of life, dreams and purpose.

“Where did he meet Adinett?” she asked. Archaeology was interesting, but there was no time to waste on such luxuries.

Juno recalled herself to the task.

“That came long after. Martin learned a lot from Wood, but he moved on. He met Heinrich Schliemann, and worked with him. He learned all sorts of new methods from the Germans, you know.” There was enthusiasm in her face. “They were the best at archaeology. They used to map a whole site and draw it all, not just bits and pieces. So afterwards anyone else could form a picture of a way of life, not just one household, or perhaps one aspect, such as from a temple or a palace.” Her voice dropped. “Martin loved it.”