But if it came down to it, these photos would do, and almost none of them had ever made it into any of the news reports or articles of the day, so that would be a coup right there. Assuming Michaela did not prevail and he would shortly be packing his bags. Bag.

He studied photographs, took more copies, made additional notes.

“There you are.”

Griff’s head jerked up as Muriel Arlington sailed into the room. Today she wore a tweed skirt and a yellow sweater set. Her pearls looked real. Not that he would know.

“Do you plan on dining with us tonight, Mr. Hadley?”

“I...hadn’t thought about it. Do you need an answer now?”

“It would certainly be helpful.” She gave him a tight smile.

Griff weighed the value of more face-to-face time with the Arlingtons against the strain of more face-to-face time with the Arlingtons. “I’ll probably be working through dinner,” he said. “But thank you.”

“Oh, you’re to come and go as you please, Mr. Hadley,” she said with that brittle friendliness. “Daddy made that clear.”

“Even so I’ll try to stay out of everyone’s way,” he promised her.

Her gaze fell on the photo album Griff had been studying, moved to the stack to the right of him. “You see, this is the very thing I was afraid of.”

“I’m sorry?” Griff asked. So much for the notion of being able to work in private. Were the Arlingtons taking shifts?

“This. This. You.” Her small, plump hand indicated Griff and the collection of albums. “Is anyone supervising you?”

“Supervising me? I...no.”

Muriel pulled out the chair across from him and plopped down. She regarded Gemma’s journal for a long, long moment. Then, as though hypnotized, she reached for it. She opened it—and then just as quickly closed it again. Griff did not know what to make of the expression that fleeted across her face. Pain? Embarrassment? Remembrance? Whatever that emotion was, it was gone as she stared at him from across the table.

Griff stared back at her.

“Go on,” Muriel said. She nodded at the album he had been studying. “If you have questions, I’ll answer them.”

“Uh, thank you.” Was she really going to sit there and watch his every move? What did she think he might do? Steal photos? Pocket objets d’art? Or was this something else entirely?

“I met Mrs. Shelton,” Griff said slowly.

Muriel’s mouth pursed in a quickly repressed smile. “So I heard.”

He smiled too. “It’s not like Brian’s kidnapping is a secret. I don’t understand why everyone is so against this book.”

“That is because you’re young and unsophisticated.”

Griff’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, Muriel said, “You have no concept of what it was like for us. The police were bad enough. The reporters were worse. We had sightseers. Can you imagine how difficult that was for a family like ours?”

“I guess it would be difficult for any family.”

“Of course. But we are private people. This book you propose to write is going to start it all up again.”

He said neutrally, “I don’t think that’s true.”

“As I said, you’re young and unsophisticated.”

“You know, I’m not that young. And I’ve been working as a reporter my entire adult life. It’s true that my book will remind people of the case, but I don’t think you’re going to have out-of-towners tramping through the flowerbeds.”

Muriel’s eyes met his with surprising directness. “You think my concerns are superficial, shallow. I know. You have no idea what it is to be someone whom everyone else watches, looks up to.”

“That’s true,” Griff said, disliking her more with every passing minute.

“Our family tragedy was exploited for national entertainment. And now when it’s mostly forgotten, you want to stir it all up again. Not, as you’ve said yourself, because you think you can shed any new light on the case. You’re simply interested in the human drama.”

“I didn’t mean I couldn’t bring a fresh perspective. It’s been twenty years after all. I just meant I don’t believe I can crack the case—a cold case—when the FBI failed.” As he said it, Griff wondered if he was being entirely honest. Didn’t he maybe hope just a bit that given time and distance, he might be able to uncover some telling bit of information, something that might make it possible to know for sure what had happened that night?

Of course he did. He was trying to keep his expectations in check, but yes. Any writer would hope the same.

“What questions do you have for me?” Muriel asked.

“None yet. It’s hard to know what to ask before I’ve had a chance to—”

“I’d rather get them out of the way.”

What a difficult woman. Was she deliberately being as awkward as possible? Griff grimly considered her pale, bland features.

“You must have some idea of what questions you want to ask,” Muriel prompted. “You said you’ve been doing this your entire adult life.”

Yes and no. This wasn’t like some of the other crimes Griff had written about. With an adult casualty there were always plenty of questions, starting with the character of the victim. But in this case, What was Brian like? Did Brian have any enemies? wasn’t relevant. Brian’s character was not a factor. Brian had been a target strictly because of the family he had been born into.

“Did you enjoy the party that night?”

She looked at him in disbelief. “Isn’t that like asking Mrs. Lincoln how she enjoyed the play?”

“I don’t think so. I think sometimes it’s easier to remember details when you’re focused on something tangential to the thing you’re trying to recall.”

Muriel’s pale eyes narrowed. “What exactly do you think I’m trying to recall?”

“Everything. Anything. Anything that might be useful now. Did you enjoy the party? It was supposed to be costume, right? The theme was A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

“No,” Muriel said. “No, I didn’t particularly enjoy the party. And yes, the theme was A Midsummer’s Night Dream, but our costumes weren’t supposed to be based on the play. How ridiculous. That was something else the papers got wrong. The décor was based on A Midsummer’s Night Dream. The costumes were supposed to be from the 1920s. It was typical of Gemma’s ideas.”

“It sounds imaginative.”

“Oh, Gemma was very imaginative. She hired a projectionist to show the movie, the 1935 movie, using the small woodland area in the garden as a screen. It was ridiculous. No one could see anything. It was just flickering black-and-white shadows against the trees.”

“Did you want to see the movie?”

“Of course not. No one wanted to see an old movie like that.”

Griff wouldn’t have minded. He liked old movies. Even old movies of Shakespeare’s plays.

“Why didn’t you enjoy the party?”

“As I said, it was Gemma’s kind of thing, not mine. It wasn’t really Matthew’s kind of thing either, but she could always wind him around her little finger.”

Griff smiled sympathetically. “Did you dress up?”

“Yes,” Muriel said reluctantly. “Gemma dragged Mike and me to a shop in Chelsea that sold vintage clothing.”

“Mike is your sister Michaela?”

“Yes.”

“And you all lived here in this house?”

“It’s not as though there’s a shortage of room.”

“No. True.”

Reluctantly, Muriel said, “Gemma and Matthew talked about getting a place of their own, but Daddy couldn’t bear the idea of being separated from his first grandchild. And then afterwards...I don’t think Gemma cared enough about anything to worry where she lived.”

“They didn’t have any more children, Matthew and Gemma?” He knew they hadn’t; he was simply giving voice to his curiosity. “Maybe it would have helped.”

“You don’t replace a child as though it were a puppy with distemper.”

“I know. I just meant...” Yeah, it had probably been a dumb comment. Griff changed tack. “Had there ever been any previous attempts at kidnapping a member of your family? Threats?”