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Ashenfelter (or Donovan) was entitled to know more about the fatal events of November 1943. Her knowledge of what had happened was fragmentary, gleaned from a few newspaper cuttings. Apparently she wasn’t aware that she could have read detailed accounts of the case in a dozen different sources. The Donovan case was regarded in Britain as a classic of forensic detection. I had two books on the shelf in my living room that I could have given her to read. Murder being more commonplace in America, I suppose she didn’t expect to find her father’s case written up and copiously analyzed by criminologists, pathologists, and policemen.
    I stepped out of the shower and reached for a bathrobe. I told her, “I’ll sleep in the spare room. No offense, but there isn’t room for two in that bed”
    She said. “But you haven’t told me anything, Theo.”
    “Want some coffee? I’ve had enough champagne.”
    “Please. I’ll come and help.”
    “No need.”
    “Could I take a shower, then?”
    “Of course.”
    I went downstairs and found the two books on the Donovan case and locked them in my desk drawer. Whatever impressions of me you may have formed up to now, I had no wish to cause unnecessary mental suffering to Alice Ashenfelter. I didn’t want her finding a book with a picture of the victim’s shattered skull on the jacket, and a mug shot of her daddy beside it.
    I guessed she’d find some excuse to follow me downstairs, and she did. She’d wrapped herself in my dressing gown and tied back her hair with the ribbon she used for her plait. It was slightly damp from the shower.
    She said, “I remembered my backpack.”
    “It’ll be cold out there.”
    She ran out and brought it in. “You know,” she said, “I have a bedroll here. There’s no reason why I should put you out of your bed.”
    “Black or white?”
    When I’d poured the coffee, I told her I’d found something for her.
    She said eagerly, “What is it, a picture of him?”
    “No. Just a souvenir. He made it.” I handed her a figure about five inches high, carved from a piece of wood, representing a country policeman with his bicycle. On the base had been whittled out the cryptic words Or I then? If you examined the figure in a detached way, I suppose you might have dismissed the subject as kitsch, while admitting to a robust quality in the workmanship.
    She stroked the carving with her fingertips, as if it were a living thing. “He really carved this?”
    I nodded.
    “And gave it to you as a present? He must have liked you a lot.” She frowned at the lettering on the base. “I don’t understand the meaning of these words.”
    “ ‘Or I then?’ Written like that, they have no meaning.”
    “A secret message?”
    I smiled. “Nothing profound about it. As a kid in Somerset, I used to meet the local bobby sometimes, and he always greeted me with what sounded like those words. It was the dialect, you see. Or I then?’”
    She shook her head, still at a loss.
    I articulated it for her. “All right, then?”
    “I got it.” She nodded, smiling.
    As she still seemed somewhat bemused, I explained, “Duke was intrigued by the way Somerset people talked. He used to collect their sayings. Living with a family and going to school with the local children, as I did, I picked up a few examples for him. ‘Or I then?’ was one of them.”
    “And this was his way of thanking you? I love it.”
    “Keep it, then.”
    She reddened and said. “Theo, I couldn’t do that. He made it for you. You kept it all these years.”
    “Duke would have liked his baby daughter to have something he made.”
    Her response was quick and spontaneous. She came up to me and kissed me on the lips. It pleased me. But if you’re thinking this was the trigger for more steamy sex in Pangbourne, think again. She was still trouble, and I meant to show her the door in the morning. I didn’t want a permanent houseguest. So, after the kiss, I put my hands on her shoulders and