“My mother. It was a great disappointment to her that I inherited my father’s looks: she was considered the most beautiful woman in Chicago when she was young.” With her deliberate motions, Geraldine Graham moved the binoculars and glasses onto the books, then placed coasters for our mugs. Settling herself in her chair, she told me I might bring over one of those by the fireplace for myself. Her fluting voice started while I was still around the corner in the main part of the room.

“I probably shouldn’t have bought a unit facing the house. My daughter warned me I would find it hard to see strangers in the place, but of course I haven’t, except for the few months that they could afford the payments.

A computer baron who melted like snow in last year’s business upheavals. So humiliating for the children, I always think, when their horses are sold. But since they left, I haven’t seen anyone until these last few days. Nights. I see nothing out of the ordinary during the day. Although my son hasn’t said so, he seems to think I have Alzheimer’s. At least, I assume he does, since he actually drove out to visit me Thursday evening, which is a rare occurrence. I am not demented, however: I know what I’m seeing. I saw you there this afternoon, after all.”

I ignored the end of her statement. “Larchmont Hall was your home? Darraugh didn’t tell me that.”

“I was born in that house. I grew up in it. But neither of my children wanted the burden of looking after such a property, not even to hold in trust for their own children. Of course my daughter doesn’t live here, she’s in New York with her husband; they have his family’s property in Rhinebeck, but I thought Darraugh might want his son to have the chance to live in Larchmont. He was adamant, however, and when Darraugh has made up his mind he is as hard as any diamond.”