“Oh, the usual tiresome things. Did Lydia show any signs of depression in the weeks before her death? Had she communicated any particular concerns, become involved in any new relationships? Etc., etc., etc. Of course I said I had no idea, nor would I have told her if I had, as none of that nonsense has any relevance to Lydia’s work.” Darcy wiped his mouth with his napkin and finished the wine in his glass. “Perhaps this time I made myself quite clear.” A shadow fell across the garden as a cloud obscured the sun. “Look, the rain’s coming on, after all. Why do the bloody weather boffins always have to be right?”

“You know, darling,” Margery said reflectively, “I’ve always thought your position on biography a bit extreme for someone who loves a good gossip as much as any old woman I know. Whatever will you do if a publisher offers you an obscene amount of money to write mine?”

Nathan Winter wiped his perspiring brow and looked up at the clouds scudding across the sky from the northwest. He’d hoped to finish setting out the plants he’d bought that morning at Audley End’s garden center before the weather turned, but he’d got rather a late start. It had been well worth the drive down to Suffolk, though, for the nursery at the Jacobean manor house stocked some old-fashioned medicinal herbs he’d not found elsewhere. And once there, of course, he’d been unable to resist the temptation to wander in the grounds and gardens, had even had a cup of tea and a sandwich in the restaurant.

Jean had loved Audley End, and they’d spent many a Sunday tramping up and down the staircases, admiring Lord Braybrooke’s specimen collection, even giggling as they fantasized about making love on the round divan in what Jean always called “the posh library.” He’d brought her one last time, in a wheelchair on a fine summer day, but the house had been impossible for her and they’d had to content themselves with a slow perambulation round the herb gardens.