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Then she sat back and studied Liddicote’s body. Maisie was no stranger to death, whether the body was newly deceased or already well into the process of becoming dust. She heard Maurice’s voice in her mind. “If we are afforded the time, Maisie, those moments of quiet in the company of the dead give the one who has passed an opportunity to tell of their passing—in their position, their belongings, and the obvious causes of death. Allow yourself that moment, if you can.”

Greville Liddicote was seated, not in his usual chair but in the chair set in front of the desk for visitors. It appeared that he had not been moved into that position but rather had taken the seat before being attacked from behind. Though the attack was not brutal—there were no other wounds; there was no sign of struggle—she suspected that death had come quickly, with a deft twist to break his neck. Yes, a very deft twist, by someone for whom such killing came with training, or experience.

Maisie stood up and moved to Liddicote’s side. His head was resting on his right hand, which was folded, with fingers pressed against his palm; the left was hanging at his side, almost as if he had fallen asleep after a long midday meal. She leaned forward and, using her forefinger, tried to ascertain whether there was anything clutched in his right hand. She felt a piece of paper, and though she knew she should wait for the pathologist, she moved the head—just a touch—to enable her fingertips to tease the paper from Liddicote’s grip. As if she were lifting the head of a sleeping child away from the side of a cradle, Maisie returned Liddicote’s head to the position in which she had discovered the body. Stepping aside, she turned on the desk lamp and inspected the paper, a crumpled photograph of a woman. As with the photograph of the four children and the woman outdoors, this was not a professional portrait, but a more informal study—taken, Maisie thought, outside, and possibly at the same time as the other photograph. Though the woman had shielded her eyes in the first photograph, the clothing seemed the same; the blouse had a wide shawl collar, and the woman wore a cummerbund-style belt around the waist of an almost ankle-length gored skirt.

The two children in the first frame of the studio photograph were likely Liddicote’s son and daughter, for they shared so many features—a slightly snub nose, large eyes, and wavy hair—but she wondered who this woman was, laughing into the sun, with one child on her hip and three others gathered around her skirts, squinting as the light played upon their fair, summer-kissed hair. If she had to guess, she would have taken the woman and her children to be the family of a farmer, and she wondered who they were to Greville Liddicote—she was sure that it was not his wife, and that the children were not his. He had gone to his death with this countrywoman’s image in his hand, held close to his heart. She wondered why he had taken hold of the photograph in the moments before he died.

Rosemary Linden blushed when Maisie answered her knock on the door.

“Your guests, Miss Dobbs.”

“Thank you, Miss Linden.” She nodded to Robert MacFarlane and Richard Stratton as they entered.

“Would the gentlemen like a pot of tea?” inquired the secretary.

“Got anything stronger, lass?” asked MacFarlane. Maisie and Stratton exchanged glances and smiled. MacFarlane had claimed his turf.

“Um, well—let me show you.” Taking care not to look in the direction of Liddicote’s body, Linden crossed the room and opened a cupboard set between two bookcases. She brought a bottle of malt whiskey and two crystal glasses to a table in the corner of the room and pushed aside a pile of books before placing the items on the table.

“Och, he was a man after my own heart, bless him.” MacFarlane looked at Maisie and grinned. “You’ll be having tea, I assume?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon—I didn’t think . . . ”

“A cup of tea would suit me well, Miss Linden—thank you.”

“Of course.”

“And,