No one nearby watching out for her, Dr. Horgan thought, as she put the paper down and turned to the mountain of work on her desk.

Then a final thought teased her: Nurse Markey. She was the one who had found Mrs. Shipley’s body at Latham Manor. There was something about that woman she didn’t like, a kind of sly, know-it-all quality. Maybe Chief Brower should talk to her again.

As part of his research for his lecture series, Earl Bateman had begun to take rubbings from old tombstones. He had made them the subject of one of his talks.

“Today, minimal information is recorded on gravestones,” he would explain, “only birth and death dates, really. But in other centuries, wonderful histories could be read from headstones. Some are poignant, while some are rather remarkable, as in the case of the sea captain buried with his five wives- none of whom, I might add, lived more than seven years once married.”

At that point, he was usually rewarded by a ripple of laughter.

“Other markers,” he would explain, “are awesome in the majesty and history they convey.”

He would then cite the chapel in Westminster Abbey, where Queen Elizabeth I was entombed only a few feet from the cousin she had ordered beheaded, Mary, Queen of Scots.

“One interesting note,” he would add, “in Ketchakan, Alaska, in the nineteenth century, Tombstone Cemetery, the burial ground there, reserved a special section for the ‘Soiled Doves,’ as they called the young women who resided in bordellos.”

On this Friday morning, Earl was preparing a synopsis of the lectures he proposed to deliver in the potential cable television series. When he came to the subject of tombstone rubbings, he was reminded that he had intended to look for other interesting ones; then, realizing it was a beautiful day, perfect for such an activity, he decided to visit the oldest sections of St. Mary’s and Trinity cemeteries.

He was driving down the road that led to the cemeteries when he saw a black Volvo station wagon come out through the open gates and turn the other way. Maggie Holloway had the same make and color car, he thought. Could she possibly have been here visiting Nuala’s grave?

Instead of going to the old section, he drove to the left and circled up the hill. Pete Brown, a cemetery worker he had come to know from his various meanderings among the old tombstones, was weeding a gravel path in the vicinity of Nuala’s grave.

Earl stopped the car and opened the window. “Pretty quiet around here, Pete,” he offered. It was an old joke they shared.

“Sure is, Professor.”

“I thought I saw Mrs. Moore’s stepdaughter’s car. Was she visiting the grave?” He was sure that everyone knew the details of Nuala’s death. There weren’t that many murders in Newport.

“Nice looking lady, skinny, dark hair, young?”

“That would be Maggie.”

“Yep. And she must know half of our guests,” Pete said, then laughed. “One of the fellows was saying that he saw her go from one plot to another and drop off flowers. All the guys noticed her. She’s a doll.”

Now isn’t that interesting? Earl thought. “Take care, Pete,” he said, then waved as he drove off slowly. Knowing that the all-seeing eyes of Pete Brown were on him, he continued on to the oldest section of Trinity and began wandering among the seventeenth-century headstones there.

Letitia Bainbridge’s studio apartment at Latham Manor was a large corner room with a magnificent ocean view. Proudly she pointed out the oversized dressing room and bath. “Being a charter member here has its perks,” she said briskly. “I remember how Greta and I decided to sign up right away, at that presentation reception. Trudy Nichols hemmed and hawed, and then never forgave me for picking off this unit. She ended up paying another hundred and fifty thousand for one of the largest apartments, and the poor darling only lived two years. The Crenshaws have it now. They were at our table the other night.”

“I remember them. They’re very nice.” Nichols, Maggie thought. Gertrude Nichols. Hers was one of the graves that has the bell.

Mrs. Bainbridge sighed, “It’s always hard when one of us goes, but especially hard when it’s someone from our table. And I just know that Eleanor Chandler will get Greta’s place. When my daughter Sarah took me to my family doctor yesterday, she told me the word is out that Eleanor is moving in here.”

“Aren’t you feeling well?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. But at my age anything can happen. I told Sarah that Dr. Lane could check my blood pressure just fine, but Sarah wanted me to be seen by Dr. Evans.”

They sat down opposite each other on slipper chairs that were placed by the windows. Mrs. Bainbridge reached over and plucked a framed snapshot from among the many on a nearby table. She showed it to Maggie. “My crowd,” she said proudly. “Three sons, three daughters, seventeen grandchildren, four great-grandchildren and three on the way.” She smiled with great satisfaction. “And the nice part is that so many of them are still in New England. Never a week goes by that somebody in the family isn’t around.”

Maggie consciously stored that piece of information; something to consider later, she thought. Then she noticed a picture that had been taken in the grand salon here at Latham Manor. Mrs. Bainbridge was in the center of a group of eight. She picked it up. “Special occasion?” she asked.

“My ninetieth birthday, four years ago.” Letitia Bainbridge leaned forward and indicated the women at either end of the group. “That’s Constance Rhinelander on the left. She just died a couple of weeks ago, and of course you knew Greta. She’s on the right.”

“Mrs. Shipley didn’t have close family, did she?” Maggie asked.

“No. Neither did Constance, but we were family for each other.”

It was time to ask about the bells, Maggie decided. She looked around for inspiration as to how to bring up the subject. The room had obviously been furnished with Mrs. Bainbridge’s personal belongings. The ornately carved four-poster bed, the antique English pie-crust table, the Bombay chest, the delicately toned Persian carpet, all spoke of generational history.

Then she saw it: a silver bell on the fireplace mantel. She got up and crossed over to it. “Oh, isn’t this lovely?” She picked it up.

Letitia Bainbridge smiled. “My mother used it to summon her maid. Mother was a late sleeper, and Hattie patiently sat in attendance outside the door each morning until the bell summoned her. My granddaughters find that ‘a hoot,’ as they put it, but the bell gives me many warm memories. A lot of us old girls grew up in that milieu.”

It was the opening Maggie wanted. She sat down again and reached into her purse. “Mrs. Bainbridge, I found this bell on Nuala’s grave. I was curious as to who left it there. Is there a custom here of putting a bell on the grave of a friend?”

Letitia Bainbridge looked astonished. “I never heard of such a thing. You mean someone deliberately left that object there?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“But how bizarre.” She turned away.

With a sinking heart, Maggie realized that for some reason the bell had upset Mrs. Bainbridge. She decided not to say anything about the fact that she had found bells on other graves as well. Clearly this did not represent a tribute that old friends gave to each other.

She dropped the bell back in her shoulder bag. “I’ll bet I know what happened,” she improvised. “There was a little girl in the cemetery the other day. She came over to talk to me while I arranged flowers around Nuala’s headstone. It was after she left that I found the bell.”

Happily, Letitia Bainbridge reached the conclusion Maggie wanted. “Oh, I think that must be it,” she said. “I mean, surely no adult would think of leaving a bell on a grave.” Then she frowned. “What is it I’m trying to remember? Oh, dear, something just came into my mind and now it’s gone. That’s old age, I guess.”