Earlier in his career Evan would have parked the car and gone for a brisk walk up the hill to savor the sunset. Now he felt burdened with too much on his mind. He was still uncomfortable with Inspector Bragg's decision to bring in Mrs. Rogers. The thought of that genteel woman spending a night in jail was repugnant to him. He admired her quiet dignity, and he wanted to believe in her innocence. He knew from past experience that a few obvious clues do not necessarily a murderer make. And yet he had to agree with Bragg that she did now seem the likely suspect. Would anyone else have thought of coming back into the house to close the window? Would anyone else have put away the lawn mower? He had to admit he was rather glad he wasn't in charge of the case.

He parked his car and climbed up the track just as the last rays of sun vanished, leaving the valley in deep gloom. Ahead of him the slopes of the Glydrs still glowed brightly, and the windows in his own little cottage winked back the sun's dying rays. He quickened his pace and took the last part of the hill at a run.

"Bron?" he called, flinging open the door. "Bron, do you feel like coming for a walk before it's quite dark? Have you seen the sky out there? It's a lovely evening."

Bronwen came out of the bedroom, brushing the wisps of fair hair back from her face.

"Oh hello, Evan," she said. "Sorry, I haven't started supper yet."

He took a long look at her. "What's wrong?" he asked. She'd clearly been crying.

"I've just had a really horrible experience," she said.

She buried her head against his shoulder. "I went to see the Khans, like I promised," she said. "I thought we could talk like reasonable people. I was doing okay with the parents at first. I told them that Jamila was a bright girl and had a good future ahead of her, and if they loved her they should think what was best for her. And her best future was obviously here. Then the brother arrived, and he went ballistic on me. He screamed that it was all my fault that his sister had turned into a loose slut with no morals. He accused me of turning her against her family and her religion. She'd never have dared to answer her father back before she met me, he said. He got right in my face, and he said if I ever dared to speak to her again, I'd be sorry."

"Oh, he did, did he?" Evan started to move toward the door.

Bronwen grabbed at his sleeve. "No, Evan. Don't go down there. It wouldn't do any good."

"I'm not having anyone threatening my wife," Evan muttered.

"But more fighting won't solve anything. I just feel like such a failure." She let out a big sigh. "I guess I'm not the wise schoolteacher I thought I was. I really thought I was going to be the voice of reason, and they'd listen to me. But the moment Rashid came on the scene, the two older ones sided with him. Even the father told me I was interfering in private, family business and would I please leave his house immediately. Then I suppose I lost it too. I told them that my husband was a policeman; and if they tried to take Jamila out of the country, they'd find that British law wouldn't allow them to behave in that barbaric way."

"Not the wisest thing to say," Evan said. "There's nothing we could do to stop them from taking their daughter where they like. You know that."

"I suppose so." Bronwen nestled her head against him again. "I just felt so angry and hopeless. Now I'm afraid I'll have scared them into taking some sort of action sooner than they'd intended to."

"You might be right," Evan said.

She pushed him away from her. "Stop sounding so damn smug and reasonable!" she shouted. "I suppose you'd have handled it perfectly! You were just about to go down there and beat up Rashid."

Evan had to smile. He pulled her close again and stroked her cheek. "I'm sure I'd have done no better than you, sweetheart. You're not going to change a mind-set that has been formed through the culture of generations."

"So what can we do now, Evan?" Bronwen demanded. "We can't just let them take her to Pakistan and marry her off to some old man."

"I suppose you could speak to someone at her school," Evan said. "They may have the power to intervene, although, I warn you, Jamila may not thank you for it if she's forcibly taken away from her family. And I suspect that this is such a delicate cultural issue that the school will stay well clear."

Bronwen paced the room. "I feel so angry and so powerless," she said.

"There is something you might do," Evan said. "Talk to Jamila herself and ask her what she wants. Would she really rather be put in foster care?"

"I don't think that's going to happen easily," Bronwen said. "From now on her brother is going to be driving her to school and back, so that she doesn't have a chance to meet with us corrupt non-Muslims." Her face brightened as she came up with an idea. "I know. Perhaps we could tell everybody to boycott the shop until they promise to keep Jamila here with them."

Evan shook his head, smiling. "You really are riled up tonight," he said. "I've never seen you like this before. What good do you think that would do? They'd up and move away, and then you wouldn't even know what happened to Jamila." He took her face in his hands. "What you don't seem to realize is that you can't force these people, Bronwen. They're proud of their culture. Any attack on their way of life and they are going to resist you, however sane and logical you think you are being."

"I suppose you're right."

"Jamila's a bright girl and she's made some friends. She may well figure this one out for herself," Evan said. "In fact there's only one thing to do now."

"What?" she looked up hopefully.

"I'll open a bottle of wine, and you start cooking the dinner."

At that she laughed. "That does seem the only sensible thing to do. Did you have a horrible day as well?"

"It wasn't bad," Evan said, "but we wound up arresting Professor Rogers's widow."

"The wife did it?"

"My boss seems to think so."

"But you don't?"

Evan shrugged. "I don't know. All the physical evidence does seem to point in her direction, but she's such a restrained, dignified woman, Bron. One of the old school, brought up to keep all her emotions in check and always to do the right thing. I just can't picture her shooting somebody."

"I'm sure you'll find out the truth, Evan. You always do," Bron-wen said.

"I hope so. It's not as if he's going to let me say a word when he interviews her, and his interviewing style is such that anyone would clam up."

"Then you're going to have to do a little extra sleuthing on your own."

"Go behind my inspector's back?"

She laughed. "When has that ever stopped you before?"

"Well, this is really nice," she said, giving him a sleepy smile. "Breakfast in bed and a nice day ahead."

"Not for me, love, I'm afraid." Evan bent to kiss her. "I've got to go to work. Don't look at me like that. I know it's Saturday, but we don't get days off when we're on a case. We keep going as long as it takes. You know that."

Bronwen sighed. "Yes, I suppose I did know that. You drummed it into me before we got married. You told me being a policeman's wife wasn't easy."

"I gave you enough chances to back out." He ruffled her hair.

"I should have listened. Now I'm stuck with you, I suppose."

"Unless you want to divorce me and live the high life onmy assets."

"Half this cottage, you mean?" she laughed. "I can't decide which is the better half."

"I have to go." Evan turned to the door. "We're interviewing Professor Rogers's widow at nine. When I say we, I mean Bragg, of course. I'll be in the back, taking notes."

Bronwen sat up. "Don't let that man walk all over you, Evan. Sometimes you're too nice. He should be damned grateful to have you on his team. And if you don't tell him, I'll come down and do it myself."

"Bronwen the belligerent," Evan said. "You used to be such a tranquil little thing."

"It's all the good sex," Bronwen said dryly. "It's got me fired up."

Evan laughed as he let himself out of the front door.

Mrs. Rogers looked as if she had come to a meeting with her bank manager when she was ushered into the interview room the next morning. Her hair was in neat waves, she wore a touch of makeup, and she looked smart in her gray wool dress. Yesterday there had been some kind of pearl broach on the dress; Evan remembered. Sharp objects had obviously been removed before she was put in a holding cell.

"Please sit down, Mrs. Rogers." DI Bragg motioned to a chair with unexpected civility. He leaned across and pressed the record button on a tape recorder. "Saturday October third. Nine thirty a.m. Detective Inspector Bragg interviewing Mrs. Madeleine Jane Rogers. Also present in the room: Detective Sergeant Wingate, Detective Constables Evans and Pritchard. Sorry about that, Mrs. Rogers. Just a little formality to make sure this is all conducted by the book." He smiled at her. Evan had to admit he was being unnaturally charming.

"I must apologize for keeping you here overnight. I trust it wasn't too unpleasant."

"Thank you, but everyone was very kind," she said. "I was treated well, and the breakfast was quite edible. In fact it was rather nice to have my breakfast brought to me on a tray for once." There was a hint of a twinkle in her eyes.

"You do understand that we couldn't arrange this meeting until this morning," Bragg said.

"I understand perfectly, Inspector. I wasn't born yesterday. You thought a night in jail might frighten me into a confession. However, I'm afraid I have nothing to confess."

"You have the right to having a lawyer present, you know. That has been made clear to you?" Bragg said.

Her eyes challenged him. "Does that mean that I've been charged with this murder?"

"No. Not yet."

"Then don't you have to charge me or release me? You can't keep me here indefinitely, can you?"

Bragg leaned forward in his seat. "Mrs. Rogers, there's nothing I'd like better than to let you go. You give us some proof that you did not kill your husband, and you can leave anytime you want to."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Inspector," she said calmly. "I have no proof at all, no alibi really, except for anyone who may have spotted me on my dog walk. My only proof is logic-why would I want to kill Martin? What could I possible gain from it? I have no close family anymore, apart from a sister I rarely see. My life was Martin. We did everything as a couple. By taking him away, I've had my whole life taken away from me."

Bragg continued to lean forward. "Mrs. Rogers, am I right in thinking that your father was in the war?"

"Yes, he was."

"And he served on what front?"

"The war in Asia. He was in Burma and captured by the Japanese. He was lucky to escape with his life. Most of his friends died building the Burma railway."

"And he brought back a Japanese officer's pistol as a souvenir?"

"I believe he did."

"And you own that pistol now?"

"Certainly not. I have no interest in weapons. I didn't even like those gruesome things that Martin collected."

"Your husband didn't have a Japanese pistol in his collection then?"

She smiled at this. "My husband's specialty was eighteenth-century Europe. A Japanese pistol would have been little use in his lectures."

"Did he ever own a pair of dueling pistols? There's only one in his collection at the moment."

"Unfortunately no," she said. "He's been trying for years to complete the pair; but they are much sought after these days, and when they've come up for auction, they've been at a price we couldn't afford."

"So the missing gun in the tray was what?"

"As I told you, Inspector, I have no interest in weapons. Martin never allowed anyone but himself to touch his collections."

"Let's move on. What made you decide to mow the lawn early in the morning when the gardener usually does it?"

"Mow the lawn? When?"

"On Thursday morning, when your husband was killed."

"I most certainly didn't mow the lawn."

"You said you went outside to do a spot of gardening."

"Yes. I weeded a bed, and I took the heads off some late roses."

"Your next-door neighbor heard the lawn mower around eight o'clock and was going to complain when it stopped."

"How strange. I can assure you it wasn't I, Inspector. If somebody used the mower, it was after Lucky and I had left on our walk."

"Who's looking after your dog at the moment, Mrs. Rogers?"

"I asked a friend who does the flowers at church with me to come in and feed him last night. Then I had to have somebody phone her to do the same this morning. I expected to be back home by now, you see. It's really not fair on poor Lucky. First he loses his daddy and then his mummy." For the first time she pressed her lips together, and turned her head toward the wall.

"Coming back to that lawn mower. So you didn't touch it, then?"

"I said I didn't."

"But it has your prints clearly on the handle. Yours and only yours."

"Extraordinary," She frowned and then nodded. "How silly. I remember now. The gardener was here on Tuesday, and he left it out. He's getting old and forgetful, I'm afraid. It was going to rain, so I wheeled it into the shed."

"And if somebody used it yesterday, why didn't they disturb your nice set of prints on the handle?"

"I can only presume that they used gloves or they took pains not to touch the handle."

"And speaking of fingerprints," Bragg went on, "we come to the latch on the kitchen window. That window was closed when we arrived, and yet the forensic team has determined that the shot was fired through an open window. Somebody closed it after your husband was shot."

"Not I, Inspector."

"And yet yours were the only prints on the latch."

"Again then all I can say is that somebody thought this through very carefully and closed the window holding a cloth or a tissue and tried to avoid touching the latch."

Bragg looked back at the other officers. Wingate was sitting behind him. Evans and Pritchard were standing, leaning against the back wall, about as far from the action as was possible in that small room. Any questions you'd like to add, Wingate?" Bragg asked.

"Yes. Thank you, sir." Wingate nodded to Mrs. Rogers. "When you took your dog for a walk that morning, you seemed preoccupied and in a remarkable hurry. Why was that?"

"May I ask who told you that?"

"The old man with the little white dog you mentioned to us. He said you barely grunted good morning to him and dragged Lucky past before he could stop and greet his little friend."

"I have no idea what made him say that. We only ever exchange a brief good morning. It's not as if I stop and gossip with him. In fact, I-" She broke off as there was a tap on the door, and it opened to reveal a uniformed constable.

Bragg bent forward and switched off the tape recorder that had been running. "What is it, Constable? Can't you see we're in the middle of an interview session?"

"I was sent to fetch you, sir. Important information my boss thinks you should have right away."

Bragg got to his feet.

"We'll have to continue this later. I do apologize, Mrs. Rogers. Pritchard, would you please arrange to have Mrs. Rogers escorted to the cafeteria and get her a cup of coffee."

As soon as she had gone, Bragg followed the uniformed constable along the echoing vinyl-tiled corridor. The others followed in his wake.

"This better be good," Bragg snapped to the constable. "We were just getting somewhere with her. Just getting her flustered, don't you think, men?"

"I believe it's very important, sir, or my sergeant wouldn't have sent me to get you."

There were several uniform branch members standing in the incident room, as well as a senior uniformed officer. The latter stepped forward and held out a hand to Bragg.

"DCI Neath. How's it going, boys?"

"We were just interviewing the widow, sir. It's looking promising. We've got her prints on everything."

"Yes, well you would have, wouldn't you? She lived there," Neath said dryly.

"What is this, sir?" Bragg demanded. "Don't tell me that some kind of old-boy network is trying to get her off."

"Nothing like that, Bragg. We've had an interesting development that may well affect your case. There was another murder last night. An Italian café owner was shot through the open window of his kitchen early this morning. It appears to have been done with the same weapon."