"Felicity Maundy."

Mrs. Jarret's face cleared. "Oh, that odd little girl who lives in the other chalet. He said she was just a neighbour, nothing romantic. She wrote us a very nice letter of sympathy."

And yet, thought Hamish, the bright and intelligent Miss Black had said they seemed in love.

"About this book," said Hamish instead. "I had a look. It seemed to be a sort of autobiography. There was only chapter one."

"But that's the problem!" cried Mr. Jarret. "The last time we saw him, he said he was halfway through the book and there was a pile of pages on the table in the chalet the last time we visited him."

"So what you think," said Hamish, "is that someone was frightened by what he was writing and they staged it so that it would look like an accidental overdose. Have you told the police this?"

"Yes, but they assured us we were wrong. That detective, Anderson, he said we were suffering from a reaction to the shock of Tommy's death but that there was no mystery at all."

"What about the sleeping pills? Did he take sleeping pills? What did his doctor say?"

"His doctor in Strathbane checked him into the rehab clinic but said he hadn't seen him since."

Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed them thoughtfully. Then he said, "It's a wee bit difficult. I do not have the resources of Strathbane, but I'll see what I can do." He pushed over his notebook. "Write down your address and phone numbers at which you can be reached."

Mr. Jarret wrote down their phone number, his business number and his mobile phone number. He raised weary eyes to Hamish. "Does this mean you'll do it?"

"I'll do what I can," said Hamish. "Is there anything else you can think of?"

"He wouldn't have done anything to harm himself," said

Mrs. Jarret. "He believed in God." Hamish looked at her enquiringly. "He even bought a Bible. He said God would stop him from taking drugs again. I would have liked that Bible."