“It’s all right, Mrs. Chiswell!” called Robin. “It’s only us!”

“Who’s ‘us’? Who are you?”

“Follow my lead,” Strike muttered to Robin, and he called, “Mrs. Chiswell, it’s Cormoran Strike and Robin Ellacott.”

“What are you doing here?” she shouted, across the diminishing space between them.

“We were interviewing Tegan Butcher in the village, Mrs. Chiswell,” called Strike, as he, Robin and the reluctant Badger made their laborious way through the long grass. “We were driving back this way and we saw two people entering your property.”

“What two people? Where?”

“They entered the woods back there,” said Strike. From the depths of the trees, the Norfolk terrier was still frenziedly barking. “We didn’t have your number, or we’d have called to warn you.”

Within a few feet of her now, they saw that Kinvara was wearing a thick, padded coat over a short nightdress of black silk, her legs bare above Wellington boots. Her suspicion, shock and incredulity met Strike’s total assurance.

“Thought we ought to do something, seeing as we were the only people who witnessed it,” he gasped, wincing a little as he hobbled up to her with Robin’s assistance, self-deprecatingly heroic. “Apologies,” he added, coming to a halt, “for the state of us. Those woods are muddy and I fell over a couple of times.”

A cold breeze swept the dark lawn. Kinvara stared at him, flummoxed, suspicious, then turned her face in the direction of the terrier’s continued barking.

“RATTENBURY!” she shouted. “RATTENBURY!”

She turned back to Strike.

“What did they look like?

“Men,” invented Strike, “young and fit from the way they were moving. We knew you’d had trouble with trespassers before—”

“Yes. Yes, I have,” said Kinvara, sounding frightened. She seemed to take in Strike’s condition for the first time, as he leaned heavily on Robin, face contorted with pain.

“I suppose you’d better come in.”

“Thanks very much,” said Strike gratefully, “very kind of you.”

Kinvara jerked the Labrador’s collar out of Robin’s grip and bellowed, “RATTENBURY!” again, but the distantly barking terrier did not respond, so she dragged the Labrador, which was showing signs of rebellion, back towards the house, Robin and Strike following.

“What if she calls the police?” Robin muttered to Strike.

“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” he responded.

A floor-to-ceiling drawing room window stood open. Kinvara had evidently followed her frantic dogs through it, as the quickest route to the woods.

“We’re pretty muddy,” Robin warned her, as they crunched their way across the gravel path that encircled the house.

“Just leave your boots outside,” said Kinvara, stepping into the drawing room without bothering to remove her own. “I’m planning to change this carpet, anyway.”

Robin tugged off her wellies, followed Strike inside and closed the window.

The cold, dingy room was illuminated by a single lamp.

“Two men?” Kinvara repeated, turning again to Strike. “Where exactly did you see them coming in?”

“Over the wall at the road,” said Strike.

“D’you think they knew you’d seen them?”

“Oh yeah,” said Strike. “We pulled up, but they ran into the woods. Think they might’ve bottled it once we followed them, though, don’t you?” he asked Robin.

“Yes,” said Robin, “we think we heard them running back towards the road when you let the dogs out.”

“Rattenbury’s still chasing someone—of course, that could be a fox—he goes crazy about the foxes in the woods,” said Kinvara.

Strike’s attention had just been caught by a change to the room since the last time he had seen it. There was a fresh square of dark crimson wallpaper over the mantelpiece, where the painting of the mare and foal had hung.

“What happened to your picture?” he asked.

Kinvara turned to see what Strike was talking about. She answered, perhaps a few seconds too late:

“I sold it.”

“Oh,” said Strike. “I thought you were particularly fond of that one?”

“Not since what Torquil said that day. I didn’t like having it hanging there, after that.”

“Ah,” said Strike.

Rattenbury’s persistent barking continued to echo from the woods where, Strike was certain, it had found Barclay, struggling back to his car with two kit bags full of tools. Now that Kinvara had released her hold on its collar, the fat Labrador let out a single booming bark and trotted to the window, where it began whining and pawing at the glass.

“The police won’t get here in time even if I call them,” said Kinvara, half worried, half angry. “I’m never top priority. They think I make it all up, these intruders.

“I’m going to check on the horses,” she said, coming to a decision, but instead of going out through the window, she stomped out of the drawing room into the hall and from there, as far as they could hear, into a different room.

“I hope the dog hasn’t got Barclay,” Robin whispered.

“Better hope he hasn’t brained it with a spade,” muttered Strike.

The door reopened. Kinvara had returned, and to Robin’s consternation, she was carrying a revolver.

“I’ll take that,” said Strike, hobbling forwards and taking the revolver out of her startled grip. He examined it. “Harrington & Richardson 7-shot? This is illegal, Mrs. Chiswell.”

“It was Jasper’s,” she replied, as though this constituted a special permit, “and I’d rather take—”

“I’ll come with you to check on the horses,” said Strike firmly, “and Robin can stay here and keep an eye on the house.”

Kinvara might have liked to protest, but Strike was already opening the drawing room window. Seizing its opportunity, the Labrador lumbered back out into the dark garden, its deep barks echoing around the grounds.

“Oh, for God’s sake—you shouldn’t have let him out—Badger!” shouted Kinvara. She whipped back around to Robin, said, “mind you stay in this room!” then followed the Labrador back into the garden, Strike limping after her with the rifle. Both disappeared into the darkness. Robin stood where they had left her, struck by the vehemence of Kinvara’s order.

The open window had admitted plenty of night air into what was already a chilly interior. Robin approached the log basket beside the fire, which was temptingly full of newspaper, sticks, logs and firelighters, but she could hardly build a fire in Kinvara’s absence. The room was as shabby in every respect as she remembered it, the walls now denuded of everything but four prints of Oxfordshire landscapes. Outside in the grounds the two dogs continued to bark, but inside the room the only sound, which Robin hadn’t noticed on her last visit, due to the family’s talking and bickering, was the loud ticking of an old grandfather clock in the corner.

Every muscle in Robin’s body was starting to ache after the long hours of digging, and her blistered hands were smarting. She had just sat down on the sagging sofa, hugging herself for warmth, when she heard a creak overhead that sounded very like a footstep.