Part 3

“Have you found any clues?” Sandra asked excitedly.

“I’ve found nothing at all so far,” he admitted.

“That’s a bad sign, isn’t it? It’s a professional job?”

“Well, it’s interesting… definitely interesting. But it’s much too early to say whether we’re dealing with a professional cat burglar.”

He looked out the window and across the lawn. It was also a good three hundred yards to the perimeter fence on this side of the manor, the opposite side from the main gate and cottage.

“The dogs?”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” she said desperately. “They should have torn an intruder to pieces. Unless perhaps if it was a woman. They’re more tolerant of the fairer sex, as I’ve told you before. All the same.”

Oscar gave a little shudder.

“You’ve seen them this morning? They’re… you know?”

“Oh, yes, just fine. I always go to see them before coming to the library for breakfast.”

“Coffee and carrot cake?” he asked.

“You know me well. I’m a creature of habit, and an early bird. I came up here to enjoy my breakfast alone, which I do regardless of whether I have guests. Of course, no sooner had I sat down than I noticed the broken window. I think it was the temperature that made me look at them. When I saw the smashed pane, I immediately looked at my bookshelf, and that’s what really sent a chill down my spine, more than the fresh air.”

“You didn’t touch anything, did you?”

She gave him an admonishing glare, friendly but stern. “I practically ran down to the kitchen and called you. As requested, I put Brad and Bruce in their kennel and made you a strong brew.”

“It was indeed strong. I could do with another if it’s not too much trouble.”

“A pleasure, of course. Where’s your mug?”

Oscar looked around and realized he’d left it on the floor near the bookshelf.

“I’ll get it. Don’t let me distract you now. I’ll leave you in peace for a minute.”

“Thanks, Sandra,” he replied absently, still standing by the window. He looked back across the lawn, wondering about the dogs. When he looked straight down, he saw a ladder, the top resting against the wall only a foot or two from the window and the bottom standing between two trellises supporting climbing roses with flowers like sparse low-lying clouds.

He turned to ask Sandra whether it was her ladder, but she’d already left. Instead, he just peered around the library. It was the whisky glass that caught his eye. He walked across to the pool table and stared absently at the glass, wondering whether a drop of malt wouldn’t lubricate his mental cogs better than coffee. His gaze followed the edge of the pool table and stopped at a dark red mark.

“What’s this then?” he asked himself, bending to get a better look. He touched it, but it was dry. Not a stain. It was a kind of scuff mark, like when you accidentally kick a shoe against a protruding rock. The colour reminded him of a particular shade of lipstick, or of overripe cherries. It wasn’t far from the deep red of the Edith Piaf roses either. But there was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“It’ll come to you when it’s ready,” he whispered to himself.

He walked back past the bookshelf, narrowing his eyes as he peered into the gap once again, and stopped when he reached the coffee table and sofas. Three empty champagne flutes and one whisky glass. Sandra, Lara, and Troy had been drinking the sparkling nectar. Andrew Bellingham shared Oscar’s love of fine whisky. There were snack trays holding a few flakes of dried pastry and a plate with the crumbs of cake and shredded carrot.