I hardly said a word until I was most of the way through my quiche, and then asked, 'Did you make this yourself?'

She nodded.

'Lovely light pastry.'

'Thank you, kind sir.' But she seemed really pleased. 'I don't often get the chance to do much cooking.'

I'd guessed something like that. The table we were eating off – a round Georgian affair-was too small for the big dining-room, and had only six chairs with it. But that made it all of a piece with the rest of the house – good furniture, but rather sparse and with the formality of a house that is more arranged than lived in. Well, with Fenwick up in London and David away at school…

'Have you lived here long?'

'Since we were married. My family sort of gave it to us as a wedding present.'

Hadn't Oscar Underbill hinted at that? I nodded and asked, 'D'you know many people around here?'

'Well enough not to let most of them in the house,' she said calmly.

'They're a bit County, are they?'

'It's not them. The few real ones are rather sweet. It's the ones who pretend they've always lived in the country and buy damn great dogs they can't control and won't go out to post a letter except on horseback, even if they're facing the wrong end.' She helped herself to salad. 'Occasionally we got one of Martin's friends in for Sunday lunch, or David brings somebody to stay… But not those phony country women.' Then, abruptly, 'Are you married? You don't somehow sound it.'

'I was for a time.'

She didn't quite ask what had happened. Not directly. 'Did you have any children?'

'No.'

'I suppose that's lucky. You didn't want them?'

I shrugged. 'We never got round to deciding wewanted them, anyway. I was moving around a fair bit in the Army… we never got a chance to dig in anywhere…'

She went on looking at me with a bland but interested smile. 'And you don't feel dynastic about it – that the name of Card shall not vanish from this earth?'

'Good God, no.'

'What happened to your wife?'

'Oh, she married again. A nice solid foundry executive.'

'Family?'

'Yes. Two, by now.'

And that seemed to satisfy her for the moment. I asked, 'What are you planning to do now? Going back to the States?'

'I haven't figured it out. I don't fancy I'd too much like to live over there, now, and David's very happy at school here, so… I guess I need a little time to see.' She got up and poured us coffee from a pot sitting on a sideboard hotplate.

'Did David go with you to the States when you visited?' I asked casually.

She glanced at me quickly, but I was stirring my cup. 'No, not for a few years.' She sat down again. 'Martin and my father didn't get on too well. So -1 guess I didn't want David to hear my father sounding off abouthis father. Dad doesn't exactly watch his language. But it's a shame David can't see America as well. Harrow's… well, it is rather English.'

'Just rather.'

She smiled suddenly. 'Now I'll bet I've said the wrong thing: were you at Harrow?'

'Like hell I was. I was at grammar school in Glasgow during the war; then we moved down to Worcester. Nowhere anybody heard of.'

There was a knock on the door and Mrs Benson waddled in. 'If you've finished, madam, I'll clear up and then be off.' And I got a look that suggested I was badly overdue, as well.

Mrs Fenwick answered in a slightly nervous sing-song voice. 'Thank you very much, Mrs Benson. We'll go through.' She led the way back across the hall.

When the door was closed, I said, 'Mrs Fenwick – I mean Lois – could I ask if you're going to let me search this house?'

She made an elegant little shivery movement. 'How very blunt. Well, of course you can. I'm going into the village to do some shopping, so you'll be all alone for at least an hour.'

'Fine,' I said. She lit a cigarette and leaned gracefully on the end of the mantelpiece, and smiled at me. I said, 'Fine,' again, but still wondered why it was that easy.

Mrs Benson and the old Morris Minor had gone by the time I went out to see Mrs Fenwick off. I helped her drag open the rather rickety doors of the wooden two-car garage – and hadn't expected to feel the gut punch like a suddenly remembered shame. Just at the sight of a car.

She noticed. 'The AA brought it home on Wednesday.'

'Yes.' I went on staring at it. They hadn't even cleaned it -why should they? It still had the stains of Calais and Arras and Lille, and his fingerprints and mine…

She said, 'The other one's mine. Little Trotsky.'

The other one was a red Morgan Plus 4, the last of the handmade small sports cars, built with deliberately old-fashioned lines: cutaway doors, running-board, spare wheel out in the open and all.

'Trotsky?' I asked, coming out of my daze.

'He's red and a bit wild but with great integrity.'

'And he hasn't been to Mexico yet.'

She laughed, a cheery silver-bells sound. 'What a lovely idea. When he's on his last legs, I'll maybe take him over there to die.' She slipped a ready-knotted silk headscarf over her hair, climbed in, and started up.

I stood aside as she backed out. She swung neatly around, called, 'It's all yours,' then waved and roared off around the house. I swung the doors closed and walked slowly back up the steps.

For a time I stood inside the front door and did the old trick of trying to feel the house that sat around me. It didn't help, of course, because it wasn'this house. But in another way, that might make things easier; if he'd been just the Occupying Power it limited the places he'd think of hiding something. So, just to start with, I fell back on the standard rules and began looking.

A man doesn't hide something in a kitchen; not his territory. Nor, for much the same reason, in a dining-room. Nor in a bedroom, even if he has his own one, as Fenwick had there. It doesn't feel private to a man, the way it does to a woman. Just look at the suicide statistics; women usually kill themselves in bedrooms, men almost never.

That cut out a fair bit of territory, and I could add David's room and probably a few larders and cloakrooms and coal-houses where Mrs Benson had the grazing rights. Which didn't leave us much positive information except that men hide things high rather than low, unless they're young or short-arsed, and Fenwick had been neither.

All those rules are taught in the best CI schools and are both beautiful and true, but they miss out one thing: there has to be something there to be found. And here, there wasn't. After nearly two hours, I was absolutely damn certain of that. It wasn't in the cellar and it wasn't in the attic and it wasn't anywhere in between. It wasn't in the gardening shed and it wasn't in the garage.

Of course, it might be locked in a treasure chest and buried anywhere in the acre or so of ground – but that didn't make sense. Fenwick hadn't been laying it down for the future like port or savings bonds. This was a live piece of evidence; if he'd bothered to hide it at all, it had to be somewhere simple, where he could get it back quickly.

Like his bank or his solicitors' office?

I drifted gloomily back to Fenwick's study and sat down at his desk and helped myself to a mouthful of Norwegian aquavit from a bottle in the corner. It was a nice, small, crowded, very masculine room; all tobacco browns and rich dark greens. A couple of comfortable deep leather chairs, rows of Folio Society books, one of those bone galleons that French prisoners on Dartmoor used to carve in Napoleonic times. Or a good fake of one, of course.

A handsome room, although maybe a bit like the Master's Study layout in a furniture exhibition, and a bit wasted, seeing how little time Fenwick can have spent here. Unless somebody else had built it for him, as bait.