“Actually, it’s rather last-minute,” said Meadows. “It was Pru who spotted your name on the brochure.”

“Liar,” said Prudence. “We signed up months ago. We’ve been looking forward to this for ages.”

“Did we? Oh yes, that’s right.” Meadows dropped his shoulders, as if found out. “Caught me again. Didn’t want it to go to your head.” He turned to his wife. “Listen, Pru, I’m trying to convince Jonathan to start selling his wares to the highest bidder, namely moi.”

“Do you work with Jamie?” Jonathan asked Prudence Meadows.

“Me? God, no. But close enough. I’m in pharmaceuticals, actually.”

“Top sales rep in Britain,” boasted Meadows. “Peddles enough Prozac to keep the entire nation stoned. Earns more than I do.”

“Hardly,” protested Prudence. “But really, Jonathan, you must come round to Jamie’s place. There isn’t a finer physician on all Harley Street.”

“Go on,” added Meadows.

“Oh shut up,” said Prudence, gifting her husband with a jab to the ribs. She returned her attention to Jonathan. “It isn’t all elective surgery. Jamie does plenty of reconstructive work as well. I understand that’s your specialty.”

“When I get a chance,” said Jonathan. “Most of the time we’re without the necessary equipment. I appreciate the invitation to visit your practice. I’m only here for three days, but if I have time I’d love to.” Jonathan studied Prudence Meadows. She was pretty in an unassuming fashion, with narrow brown eyes and a vaguely sour cast to her lips. He jogged his memory for a sighting of her while he was up at Oxford all those years ago, but came up dry. He was certain they’d never met.

“Could you excuse me? I have to run,” he said, gesturing in the opposite direction. “I need to go find the guy who invited me. Maybe we can get together tomorrow night?”

“Dinner. Our place,” said Jamie Meadows. “I won’t take no for an answer. Notting Hill. Number’s in the book.” Suddenly he lunged forward, and when he shook Jonathan’s hand, his eyes were wet. “It’s good to see you. All this time. I can’t believe it.”

“Likewise, Jamie,” responded Jonathan, moved by the show of emotion.

“Anyway, till tomorrow,” said Meadows, gathering himself. “Can’t wait to hear the big speech. Give you the details about dinner then. Cheers!”

“Yes, good luck with your talk,” said Prudence, smiling warmly.

Jonathan walked back to the bar and ordered another beer. The room was packed. Conversation had grown from bubbly to boisterous. No abstemious physicians here. He scanned the crowd for Dr. Blackburn, and when he didn’t see him, he went down the corridor to the restroom. It was time to head out and get something to eat. No one could say he hadn’t put in an appearance.

The door to the restroom opened. A moment later he spotted Blackburn in the mirror, plainly agitated. “Come on, then,” said Blackburn. “Follow me.”

“Excuse me?”

Blackburn nodded toward the door. “We need to hurry before they get here. Let’s get a move on.”

Jonathan stood his ground. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“You know.” Blackburn walked out of the restroom. Puzzled, Jonathan followed. Blackburn led the way down the corridor, turned the corner, then threw open the door to a conference room. “What are you waiting for?”

Jonathan hurried inside. “What’s this about?” he asked after Blackburn had closed the door behind them. “What do you mean, ‘before they get here’?”

“There’s no time for questions. Just do as I say. You can leave through the window. It’s unlocked. Go to Green Park Underground station and take the tube to Marylebone. You’ll have to change trains at Piccadilly. I was led to understand you knew your way around London.”

“More or less.”

“Right, then. Get out at Marylebone and head west on Edgware Road. Look for number sixty-one. It’s a walk-up flat. Black door with golden numerals. You’ll see some names and buzzers. Forget ’em. The door will be open. Go up to the second floor. Two C.” Blackburn dug out a rabbit’s foot with a single key dangling from it.

“What in the world are you talking about?” asked Jonathan as he took the key.

“Wait inside until you receive a phone call,” instructed Blackburn, calmer now that Jonathan was paying attention. “You’ll receive further instructions after we make sure you’re clean.”

“Clean?”

“Two of them have been keeping an eye on you at the cocktail party.”

“Two of who? I didn’t notice anyone.”

Blackburn shot him a glance that said he was hardly surprised. “Get going. There’s someone who wants to see you. And, I imagine, whom you wish to see as well.”

Jonathan’s heart caught in his throat. She’s here. She’s in London .

Blackburn moved to the door. “You must hurry,” he said.

Fronted by the Meadow, a broad field of untamed grass and bordered by the meandering waters of the Isis River, Christ Church College, Oxford, was the picture of British higher learning. The college was founded in 1524 by Thomas Cardinal Wolsey who had expropriated the grounds from a group of stubborn monks. Henry VIII stole it back from Wolsey and appointed the monastery church as the cathedral of the diocese of Oxford. As such, Christ Church was the only college at Oxford to be both church and institution of higher learning. But that kind of history belonged in guidebooks. All anyone knew about it today including Kate Ford, was that its great hall served as the set for Hogwart’s dining room in the Harry Potter movies. She was suitably impressed.

Kate ducked her head into the dusk of the porter’s lodge and announced herself. “I’m looking for Anthony Dodd.”

“Second floor. First door on the right.”

She climbed the wooden stairwell. It was approaching six in the evening, and she was already bone tired. It was the videos that did it. All day she’d sat in One Park ’s security office reviewing tapes from the building’s closed-circuit camera system in hopes of spotting Robert Russell’s murderer. But no one-not she, nor Reg Cleak, nor any of the doormen who had worked the day before-had seen any unknown persons enter the building, or-and this was the crucial point-walk through the front door of Russell’s residence on the fifth floor. Eight hours and not a single clue.

At four the coroner had phoned with news confirming that Russell’s skull had been fractured before his fall. It was his opinion that the weapon was a blunt instrument, something akin to a ballpeen hammer. And though he couldn’t say whether or not the blow had killed Russell, he was able to state with certainty that the blow had rendered him unconscious. The news confirmed her suspicion that Russell was already dead, or at the least incapacitated, when he’d fallen from his balcony, and had bolstered her belief that the assailant had been waiting for Russell upon his return. The question remained: how in God’s name had he gotten in?

Reaching the second floor, Kate advanced down a gloomy hallway. The first door on the right stood ajar. Inside a cramped, sun-filled office, a burly young man in rugby kit was bent over a desk, shuffling through a stack of papers. Kate poked her head in. “Is this Professor Dodd’s office?”

“It is,” answered the student without looking up.

“Is he about?” Kate asked.

“He is indeed.” The young man put down his papers and stood up. He was taller than she’d expected, at least six feet four inches, and handsome. His cheeks were flushed, his brow damp with sweat below a head of tousled brown hair. But it was his legs she couldn’t help but notice. His thighs were as stout as tree trunks and striated with muscle.

“Where?”

“You’re looking at him.” Dodd nodded, stretching a hand to shake as he came closer. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m used to it. I’ll be forty next week. I’m praying for my first gray hair.”