“Across the street was a haberdasher. London Town, they called it. I recall the model displayed over the signboard. And down the street was a chemist’s shop — Huddell’s. I remember it because my father took us inside once for a penny bag of chocolates.” Her face shone briefly at the memory.

Felder found the answers more than a little disturbing.

“What about schooling? Did you go to school on Water Street?”

“There was a school, down at the corner, but I didn’t go. My parents couldn’t afford it. Universal free public education didn’t exist then. And I told you — I’m self-educated.” She paused. “Why are you asking me these questions, Dr. Felder?”

“I’m curious to see how clear your early memories are.”

“Why — in order to satisfy yourself they are delusional?”

“Not at all.” His heart was beating fast, and he tried to conceal his excitement and confusion.

Constance met his gaze with her own and seemed to see into him. “If you don’t mind, Doctor, I’m tired.”

He took up the folder with both hands and rose. “Thank you again, Constance,” he said. “I appreciate your candor.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And for what it’s worth—” he said suddenly—“I believe you. I don’t begin to understand it, but I believe you.”

Her expression softened. Very faintly, she inclined her head.

He turned and knocked on the door. What had possessed him to make such an impulsive statement? A moment later, the key turned and an orderly appeared.

Outside in the corridor, as the orderly relocked the door, Felder opened the folder he’d been carrying. Inside was an article from that morning’s New York Times. It described a historical find that had just been announced that very day: the diary of a young man, Whitfield Speed, who had lived on Catherine Street from 1869 to his untimely death under the wheels of a carriage in 1883. Speed, an enthusiastic New Yorker, had apparently been very taken with Stow’s Survey of London and was hoping to write a similarly fine-grained account of the streets and shops of Manhattan. He had only managed to fill a single journal with observations before his death. The journal had remained locked in an attic trunk with his few possessions, unknown since his death, and had only just been rediscovered. It was being hailed as an important addition to the history of the city, as it gave very specific information about the composition of his neighborhood — information unobtainable from any other source.

Speed’s Catherine Street residence had been just around the corner from Water Street. And on an inside page, the Times had printed one of the elaborate pencil sketches from Speed’s journal-in-progress — a sketch that included a detailed neighborhood map of two streets, Catherine and the adjoining Water. Until this very morning, nobody alive knew precisely, on a building-by-building basis, what shops those streets had consisted of during the 1870s.

The moment Felder had read the article at the breakfast table earlier that morning, he’d been struck with an idea. It seemed crazy, of course — he was really doing little more than indulging Constance, encouraging her delusions — but here was a perfect opportunity to check on her information. In the face of truth — the real layout of 1870s Water Street — perhaps Constance could be persuaded to begin leaving her fantasy-world behind.

Standing in the corridor, Felder scrutinized the image in the newspaper carefully, struggling to parse the antique handwriting scrawled across the diagram. Then he went rigid. There was the tobacconist. And two buildings away, Huddell’s Chemists. Across the street was the haberdasher London Town, and on the corner, Mrs. Sarratt’s Academy for Young Children.

He closed the folder slowly. The explanation was obvious, of course. Constance had already seen today’s paper. A mind as inquisitive as hers would want to know what was going on in the world. He set off down the hall toward reception.

As he drew close to the receiving station, he noticed Ostrom standing in an open doorway, speaking with a nurse.

“Doctor?” Felder asked, with some hurry.

Ostrom glanced back at him, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

“Constance has seen the morning paper, right? The Times?”

Ostrom shook his head.

Felder froze. “No? You’re sure about that?”

“I’m positive. The only newspapers, radios, and televisions that are patient-accessible are in the library. And Constance has been in her room all morning.”

“Nobody has seen her? No staff, no nurses?”

“Nobody. Her door hasn’t been unlocked since last night. The log states it quite clearly.” He frowned. “Is something the matter?”

Felder realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly. “Nothing. Thank you.”

And he walked out of the lobby, into bright sunlight.

CORRIE SWANSON HAD PUT OUT A ROUTINE Google alert for “Aloysius Pendergast.” At two AM, as she fired up her laptop and collected her e-mail, she saw she’d gotten a rare hit. It was an obscure document, a transcript of an inquest held in a place called Cairn Barrow, Scotland. The inquest was dated some weeks before, but it had just been posted online today.

As she read the dry, legalistic language, a sense of complete disbelief took hold. Without commentary or analysis or even a conclusion, the transcript was nothing more than a record of the testimony of various witnesses relating to a shooting incident on some Highland moor. A terrible, utterly unbelievable incident.

She read through it again, and again, and yet again, each time feeling an increase in the sense of unreality. Clearly, this strange tale was only the tip of some iceberg, with the real story submerged beneath the surface. None of it made sense. She felt her emotions morphing — from disbelief, to unreality, to desperate anxiety. Pendergast, shot dead in a hunting accident? Impossible.

Hands trembling slightly, she fished out her notebook and looked up a telephone number, hesitated, then swore softly to herself and dialed the number. It was D’Agosta’s home number and he wouldn’t be happy getting a call at this hour, but screw it, the cop had never called her back, never followed through on his promise to look into it.

She swore out loud again, this time louder, as her fingers misdialed and she had to start over.

It rang about five times and then a female voice answered. “Hello?”

“I want to talk to Vincent D’Agosta.” She could hear the tremor in her own voice.

A silence. “Who is this?”

Corrie took a deep breath. If she didn’t want to get hung up on, she’d better cool her jets. “This is Corrie Swanson. I’d like to speak to Lieutenant D’Agosta.”

“The lieutenant isn’t here,” came the chilly response. “Perhaps I could take a message?”

“Tell him to call me. Corrie Swanson. He has my number.”

“And this is in reference to—?”

She took a deep breath. Getting mad at D’Agosta’s wife or girlfriend or whoever wouldn’t help. “Agent Pendergast. I’m trying to find out about Pendergast,” she said, and added, “I worked with him on a case.”

“Agent Pendergast is dead. I’m sorry.”

Just hearing it seemed to strike her dumb. She swallowed, tried to find her voice. “How?”

“A shooting accident in Scotland.”

There it was. Confirmation. She tried to think of something more to say, but her mind was blank. Why hadn’t D’Agosta called her? But there was no point in talking further with this person. “Look, have the lieutenant call me. ASAP.”

“I’ll pass on the message,” was the cool response.

The phone went dead.

She slumped in her chair, staring at the computer screen. This was crazy. What was she going to do? She felt suddenly bereft, as if she had lost her father. And there was no one to talk to, no one to grieve with. Her own father was a hundred miles away, in Allentown, Pennsylvania. She felt suddenly, desperately alone.