It took the woman on the bed a moment to react to the sound of the door opening and turn her head toward the men who had just come into her bedroom. She looked at them with neither interest nor surprise, her face a mask of composure apart from lips pressed firmly together.

"I thought you were supposed to be resting, Mrs. Rogers," DI Bragg said.

"The doctor prescribed a sedative, but she wouldn't take it," the WPC said, as if this had personally offended her. "I've tried to get her to lie down at least and drink some hot tea for the shock."

"As if I could rest at a time like this," Mrs. Rogers said. Her voice was soft but smooth and cultured. "My husband's body lying downstairs, blood all over my kitchen, and you tell me to rest?"

"I understand what you must be going through. I'm Detective Inspector Bragg. I'll be handling this case. This is Detective Constable Evans, who'll be taking notes as we talk. You do feel up to talking, don't you?"

"Yes. I can talk. It's better than sitting here and thinking," she said.

"Good. Let's start at the beginning then. Your full name is?"

"Madeleine Jane Rogers. I'm usually called Missy. It's a childhood nickname that stuck."

"And you've been married to Martin Rogers for how long?"

"Twenty-nine years, almost thirty. Our anniversary would have been this November."

"Any children?"

"Unfortunately no. We couldn't have children. It's always been my great regret."

Bragg cleared his throat. "Right. Let's get to this morning then, shall we?"

"Yes. Very well. It was just the same as every other morning. I always get up first. I lay the table and prepare the breakfast; then I take the dog for a walk."

"No servants in the house?"

"Servants?" She made a sound that was half laugh, half cough. "How much do you think university professors earn, Inspector? When Martin's father grew up in this house, there was a pack of servants, but we're now down to a cleaning lady, once a week, and a gardener who does the heavy jobs for me."

"I see. You don't usually eat breakfast with your husband then?"

"No. I'm always up at six or six thirty. Martin never rises before eight. I-I don't sleep too well."

"And this morning you were up at your usual time?"

"Yes. I got up at about six thirty, made myself a cup of tea, ate a slice of toast and marmalade, and read the paper. I took Martin up a cup of tea about seven fifteen. Then I went outside and did a spot of gardening. Then about seven forty-five, I boiled him an egg and called up the stairs to say it was ready. He said he'd be down right away. I put the egg and the toast on the table, poured him a cup of tea, and then shouted up the stairs again to remind him not to let the yolk get hard. He hated eggs with hard yolks. Then I took the dog for a walk, the way I always do."

Evan looked around the room. "Where is the dog now?" he asked.

"I shut him in the summerhouse. He's a highly strung animal. I thought he'd get terribly upset with what would be going on here."

"Good idea," DI Bragg said, glancing across at Evans. Evan couldn't tell from the glance whether the DI was annoyed that he had spoken up. "So your walk started when?"

"I always leave at eight o'clock, and I'm out for about an hour."

"When you went out this morning, did you notice anything suspicious? Something that caught your eye as not quite right?"

"You mean did I glimpse someone lurking in the bushes? I'm afraid I didn't. And Lucky would have growled if he'd sensed somebody was in the garden. He has a wonderful sense of smell."

"Do you always take the same route?"

"It depends on the weather. On nice days I like to walk as close to the water as possible and enjoy the view across the strait to Anglesey. When the weather is not so fine, I stick to the town route, past the park, so that Lucky can have a bit of a run. I take a tennis ball for him. He loves retrieving balls."

"This morning was fine, so you did the water route then?"

"Exactly."

"Did you pass anybody along the way?"

She frowned, as if digesting this request. "Cars passed me. A boy on a bike, on his way to school. I don't recall any people-" She broke off as the full implication of the question came to her. "You want to ascertain that I really was on a walk with my dog when Martin was shot? Surely you can't think that I had anything to do with his death?"

"This is all purely routine, Mrs. Rogers. We have to examine every option."

"Yes, I suppose you do," she said. "Very well, I did say good morning to a man as I passed his garden. He's out there most mornings, and he has a little white dog who has become Lucky's friend. They always exchange a sniff and a tail wag through the gate."

"Do you happen to know the name and address?"

"I'm afraid I don't. Isn't that terrible? You pass the time of day with somebody for years, and you never take it to that next level and find out their name. I can take you and show you the house. It's very easy to find. It's black and white, pseudo-Tudor, and there's a white, fluffy dog in the garden most of the time."

"Pseudo-Tudor. On which street?"

"Ffordd Telford," she said. "Or Telford Road if you prefer it in English-which it always used to be, of course."

Bragg glanced at Evans again. "Got that, Evans?"

"Yes sir."

"Right, let's get back to your account of the morning. So your walk lasted the usual hour, did it?"

"More or less. I never time it to the minute. I came back and got Lucky a drink in his bowl outside. Martin doesn't like him eating or drinking in the house. Then I hung my jacket in the hall cupboard. The radio was on in the kitchen, and it was playing a Beatles' song. 'She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.' It made me remember happier days. Then I went through to the kitchen, and it took me a minute to notice Martin lying there, sprawled across the table, and the pool of blood on the tablecloth . . ." She put her hand up to her mouth and fought to compose herself. "It was a terrible shock. I'm sorry," she said at last.

"Did you try to move him?"

"No. I didn't touch him. It was so obvious that he was dead, you see. I walked around him and his eyes were open, staring at me. It was horrible. I ran to the phone and dialed nine-nine-nine, and then I went and locked up Lucky and waited for the police to arrive. That's about it, really. I'm afraid none of it seems real, almost as if I was describing a film I'd seen last night."

"Do you have someone to go to for a few days, Mrs. Rogers?" the WPC asked. "Family close by?"

"I've no real family anymore." Missy Rogers shuddered as she said it. "My parents died some years ago. I've a sister, but she lives in the south of France now. We see each other once a year at the most."

"Close friends living nearby?" the WPC insisted.

"We have plenty of friends among the faculty, and there's the altar guild at church."

"Any of them you'd like me to call to come and fetch you?"

Missy Rogers shook her head emphatically. "No. I'd prefer to be alone at the moment, thank you. I don't think I could stand other people's pity. I-I don't like being fussed over, I'm afraid. You'll be taking Martin's body away soon, will you?"

"As soon as the forensic boys have done their job and gone over the crime scene. If I were you, I'd stay up here until they're done."

"Would you like me to bring your dog up to you, Mrs. Rogers?" Evan asked. "He can't be too happy, shut away by himself all this time, and animals can be very comforting."

Missy Rogers's face lit up. "Yes. Thank you. I would like that. Would you mind? Would it be all right, Inspector, if the dog was brought straight up here?"

"No problem at all, Mrs. Rogers. I'll have Evans bring it to you as soon as we've finished our little chat."

"What more can I possibly tell you?" she asked.

"Well, the obvious question is whether anybody would have a reason to kill your husband."

Missy Rogers stared up at Bragg. "My husband wasn't an easy man, Detective Inspector. You have to understand that. He liked things done his way. He had strong opinions, so naturally he clashed with people from time to time. This isn't to say that he annoyed anyone enough to want to kill him."

"So what's your take on this, Mrs. Rogers?" Bragg asked. "Who do you think might have killed your husband? Some sort of suspicion must have entered your mind when you saw him lying there."

"Absolutely not. I was flabbergasted. Completely in shock."

"And now you've had some time to think. Anyone we should be looking at? Anyone who had quarreled with your husband recently or bore him an ongoing grudge?"

For the first time Evan noticed a spark of reaction in her face. "I don't know about you, Inspector," she said, "but when I have a disagreement with somebody, I don't rush out and shoot them after ward. It needs much more than that to make you want to shoot somebody."

"Like what, Mrs. Rogers?"

"A deep-seated, primal emotion, I should think. Intense hatred or fear. There has to be no other way out."

"So if you had to make a guess, is there anyone who might possess such a deep-seated emotion in regard to your husband?"

"Nobody I can think of."

"Then who might have waited for you to leave and then shot him?"

"I wish I could tell you that, Inspector, but I can't. A burglar, maybe, who saw me go out and was sure the house would be empty? There have certainly been plenty of robberies in this neighborhood recently. Our neighbors have alarm systems. We never had one installed because of Lucky; he's a wonderful watchdog."

"Would you be kind enough to take a look around the house with me to see if anything has been taken or disturbed?"

"Certainly." She got to her feet, brushed down her tweed skirt, and nodded that she was ready to begin. At the doorway she hesitated. "I-uh-won't have to go into the kitchen again, will I? I don't think I could bear to see . . ."

"No, not unless you kept the family secrets hidden in a safe in the kitchen floor."

"No, there's no safe," she said. "I have some good jewelry at the bank; Martin has a rather valuable coin collection and some rare stamps, but they're at the bank too. What little silver we have is on display. It seems such a shame to have beautiful things and not enjoy them. Beautiful objects make life bearable, don't you think?"

They walked from room to room. The ground floor contained a dining room, drawing room, and a library, its walls lined floor to ceiling with books. There were two spare bedrooms on the same floor as the master, as well as a former bedroom now turned into a study, with walls of yet more books, filing cabinets, and a desk with papers stacked neatly on it. Then up a flight of stairs to what had once been servants' bedrooms. One of these was now a room used for sewing and ironing. The other was stacked with boxes. Nothing appeared to have been touched.

"Is it possible that your husband had any valuable papers in his study?" Bragg asked.

"Papers worth stealing?" She half smiled. "He was a well-respected man in his field, but I don't think his work was so unique or outstanding that anybody would want to steal his papers. It's not as if he was a scientist developing a new bomb, is it? He was a historian, specializing in the eighteenth century. I don't think any of his work was earth-shattering enough to steal-or to kill him for."

She swayed suddenly and grabbed onto the banister. "I'm afraid I really do need to sit down for a while. This has been all too much for me."

"Quite understandable," Inspector Bragg said. "I think I've got everything I need for now, Mrs. Rogers. Of course the forensic team will need to take your fingerprints when they get here, but for now I suggest that you go back to your room and lie down. We'll have Constable Evans fetch your dog for you."

"Thank you. You're most kind."

Evan took her arm and escorted her back to the bedroom.

"Just one last thing, Mrs. Rogers," DI Bragg called after her. "Did your husband own a gun?"

"He had several antique guns. He used to use them as visual aids for his lectures. I don't know if any of them actually work anymore."

"And where would we find them?"

"He kept them in one of the drawers of the bureau in the library. I don't think it's locked. I'll show you." She led them down the stairs again, into the library, and pulled open a drawer. Several ancient firearms lay on a velvet backing-what looked like a dueling pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle; a colt revolver, an ancient musket. And one gap, with the imprint of a gun that had lain there.