Immediately, the music stopped.

Logan got up, shut off the lights, then returned to the chair. Once again, there was nothing at first. The sense of comfort was gone; so was the music. Gradually he began to be aware that, instead of the well-being he’d felt earlier, he now felt a faint — very faint — sense of uncertainty, perplexity, unease.

And then the piano music returned: once again, softly at first, then louder. The lush, romantic melody was still there — but as Logan listened, it slowly changed. It grew strange, haunting, maddeningly complicated: long rushes of rising arpeggios in a minor key, played faster and faster. There was something disturbing and ineffable in the music — something interwoven into the complex passages, almost below the threshold of comprehension, that seemed to Logan, as he listened, to be almost diabolical.

And then, along with the music, he began to smell something — a smell that was somehow part and parcel of the music itself — an increasingly strong and nauseating reek of burning flesh. A memory came to him suddenly, or perhaps it was precognition: an old house, flames billowing ferociously from its windows…

Suddenly, he jumped up from the chair. His mouth had gone dry, and his heart was hammering in his chest. He staggered through the darkness to the light switch, snapped it on, then leaned against the wall, gasping in breaths, shaking his head to clear away the terrifying music.

Within a few minutes his breathing had returned to normal. Gathering up his duffel and slinging it over a shoulder, he stepped out of the door and into the hall — reaching inside to switch off the lights again — and then, locking the door, pocketed the key and made his way back down the elegant corridor to his own rooms, careful as he did so to keep his mind as blank and as empty as possible.

The Grounds and Infrastructure Maintenance Center was a hangarlike outbuilding in the eastern shadow of the mansion, sitting amid a minicampus of other, smaller structures. Although its facade was cleverly designed to imitate that of Dark Gables, its huge sliding doors and flat roof betrayed its true nature.

Jeremy Logan stepped through an employees’ entrance and found himself in a cavernous space. To the far right was a veritable battalion of landscaping and earthmoving equipment: commercial mowers, chippers, Kubota tractors, Ditch Witch trenchers, and half a dozen more esoteric pieces of gear were lined up, gleaming and ready for use. Behind them were two repair bays with a large attached parts section. In the bays, Logan could make out mechanics in jumpsuits performing operations on disassembled machinery. In the middle of the maintenance center were several long, massive industrial shelves, stretching from the concrete floor to the ceiling and containing pallets full of every imaginable item necessary to keep the complex running, from light switches to PVC pipe to circuit boards to plumbing fixtures to office accessories, all carefully labeled. Next came an extensive machine shop. Finally, stretching along the left-hand wall of the maintenance center, was a small cluster of cubicles, staffed with workers typing at workstations or speaking into telephones. Logan walked up to the closest worker and asked directions to the office of Ian Albright. He was pointed toward a set of exposed metal steps set into the nearest wall.

Albright’s office was small but functional. One wall was entirely of glass and looked out over his maintenance domain. Albright himself was middle-aged and roundish, with a drinker’s red nose and a cheery disposition. “Have a seat, then,” he said with a laugh, perching himself on the edge of a desk covered with work orders, invoices, and memos. “Dr. Olafson said to expect you.” Albright spoke in a working-class London accent that Logan found refreshing after the somewhat stifling academic atmosphere inside the main house.

“Thanks,” he said as he sat down. “I have to confess, Mr. Albright—”

“Ian, if you please.”

“I have to confess, Ian, I’m not exactly sure what your job description is. One person referred to you as the ‘infrastructure supervisor.’ Another as the ‘site manager.’ ”

Albright threw back his head and laughed. “That’s a lot of rubbish, that. I’m just a glorified super — with a whacking great council house to look after.” And he indicated the Lux headquarters with a westward wave of his hand and another laugh.

The man’s laughter was infectious and Logan found himself smiling. He was suddenly reluctant to change the mood. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you about a former resident of that particular council house.”

“Oh? And who might that be?”

“Willard Strachey.”

Immediately, the smile fell away from Albright’s face. “Oh,” he said again, in a distinctly subdued tone of voice. “Terrible bit of business.”

“Yes, it was.”

“He was a good one. Not like some, mind you, who treat me and my mates like groundskeepers and won’t give us the time of day. He was always polite, Dr. Strachey was. Always had a kind word.”

“I’ve been asked by the board to look into the circumstances of his death.”

“Right. Terrible bit of business,” Albright repeated, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “How much do you know?”

“About?”

“About his manner of death.”

Logan hesitated. “Just about everything.”

Albright nodded. Then he whispered: “It was me as found his…” He fell silent and pointed to his own head. “Trimming the verge at the time, I was, down near the East Wing, banking the soil and adding some plant food.” He grimaced, reliving the moment. “Been told to keep my mouth shut about it.”

“I think that’s a very good idea. Morale’s low enough as it is.” Logan paused a moment. “Up until recently, how would you characterize Dr. Strachey’s frame of mind?”

“Beg pardon?”

“What was he like? Withdrawn, contemplative, friendly, moody?”

Albright considered this a moment. “Do you know the expression ‘Snug as a bug in a rug’?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that was Dr. Strachey. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a man better fitted for his line of work — or more suited temperamentally, like.”

This jibed so closely with what others had said that Logan decided that in the future he’d stop asking the question. “I’d like to talk to you about the West Wing, if I may.”

Albright looked at him curiously. “The West Wing? What about it?”

“Well, can you tell me its history? Why has it been closed down for so long?” During Logan’s own tenure at Lux, the subject of the West Wing had rarely come up; it was almost as if it had never existed.

“Can’t say as I know for sure. It was in pretty constant use through the sixties and seventies — that’s when I came on staff, in 1978. But by that time the Fellows were starting to complain.”

“Why?”

“Well, it was just getting…down at the heels, like. Offices and labs were small and cramped — not to mention very confusing to get around, what with no central connecting corridor. And when the East Wing renovation was completed in 1976, and everyone saw how much nicer the quarters were over there, they started asking for transfers. The staff was smaller then, and the main structure and the East Wing could accommodate just about everyone. So the West Wing fell into disuse. It was shut up completely in 1984.”

“Why?”

“There just didn’t seem any reason to keep only a handful of blokes working in there. Waste of electricity. Besides, it was overdue for a lot of repair. The heating and plumbing systems were out of date. And so they just closed it up.”

“Until recently,” Logan said.

Albright nodded. “What with the new Fellows and research associates, I guess they needed more room.”

“And they assigned Dr. Strachey to oversee the redesign.”

“Yes. Along with Miss Flood.”