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inspected the roll-top desk, which was
stacked with unopened mail, some handwritten papers, and what
appeared to be business reports. He examined the small round table
positioned between Comfrey’s wingback and the torchiere lamp. A
book had been put there, closed, the reader’s place held by a
tasseled book mark. A drink sat beside the book: two fingers of
amber liquid in a crystal glass. Both book and glass were spotted
with red pinpricks of blood and flecked with what was probably
flesh.
    Hetheridge turned back to the dead man. Had
he been introduced to Comfrey, during one of those endless social
obligations, sometime in the last ten or twenty years? The name
still nagged at him. Hetheridge, who prided himself on his
excellent powers of recollection, hated admitting he had forgotten
something, even to himself.
    Comfrey’s face had taken the brunt of the
assault. If Hetheridge had ever been introduced to the man, he had
no chance of recognizing him now. The man’s nose was flattened, hit
so often white bone showed through the mess of flesh. His front
teeth were broken off. And the smell of burnt skin and hair
emphasized the obvious – the killer’s poker had come directly from
the fire.
    Hetheridge had studied the requisite
psychology of the homicidal individual from books and scholarly
papers, as well as from life experience, but in this case, advanced
powers of psychiatric deduction seemed unnecessary. This killer was
no intruder-stranger. This killer knew Comfrey, and vented his rage
– his or her rage, Hetheridge corrected himself dutifully – on
Comfrey’s face, as killers so often did when the motivation was
intensely personal.
    Hetheridge glanced at his Rolex. He believed
he’d been examining the scene for five to ten minutes, and was
startled to learn he’d spent nearly a half-hour in the library. The
blonde constable, whom Hetheridge had nearly forgotten, was still
waiting just outside the door, looking strained and eager for
dismissal.
    “Constable,” Hetheridge called. “Were you
sick in this room?”
    “No, sir,” the man replied, taking a
reluctant step into the library. “I made it outside. It was Mrs.
Comfrey, sir. She found the body, was sick, and called 999.”
    “Of course,” Hetheridge said. He took a last
look around the library, then smiled at the constable, amused to
see that the man did not relax at all. He recalled Kate’s
characterization of him in his evening dress, sweeping into a
murder scene to terrify hardworking young officers. Surely, she
exaggerated.
    “Take me to Mrs. Comfrey and her daughter,
please.”
    This time, the constable led Hetheridge down
the grand staircase, scarlet-carpeted, oak-banistered, and lit by a
glittering crystal chandelier. From there, they entered the parlor,
a gracious and airy room with modern furniture, mostly white, and
bowls of yellow chrysanthemums. Kate stood near the cold fireplace,
composed again, tapping on her smart phone. Two women sat on the
long white sofa. A slim, angular brunette in her late teens or
early twenties, presumably Jules Comfrey, turned toward Hetheridge
as he entered. Her face was pale, but he saw no tell-tale splotches
of redness to indicate she’d been crying. Another woman, also
brunette but older and softer-faced, glanced at Hetheridge and
froze, her hand going to her throat.
    “Tony,” she cried, rising from the sofa. “Oh,
Tony, thank God it’s you. Malcolm’s dead. What am I going to
do?”

Chapter Four
    Kate stopped her rapid-fire notation into her
smart phone. Tony? she thought, shooting a glance at
Hetheridge.
    “Madge,” he murmured. No reaction, no
mirroring of Mrs. Comfrey’s instant intimacy – her outstretched
hands, her pleading look. Had it not been for Jules Comfrey,
reaching up to catch her mother by the arm, Kate thought Mrs.
Comfrey would have rushed across the room to embrace
Hetheridge.
    “Who are you? How did you get in here?” Jules
Comfrey demanded, taking in Hetheridge’s tuxedo