Charles was away on a business trip that had extended itself by four days with no explanation offered and no return date confirmed, which Beatrice had communicated to Seraphina on the phone with the flat patience of someone who had stopped asking for explanations some time ago.
Seraphina drove out on Saturday.
The Hayes mansion in the late October light looked exactly like what it was: a large expensive house that had never been made into a home. The roses along the front path were past their season, not quite dead but past their purpose, and the stone of the building had the particular grey of a cloudy afternoon in a place where nobody opened the curtains very wide.
Beatrice was in the garden when she arrived, which was a good sign. She was up and outside and had a cardigan on over a pale blue dress and was doing something involving the vegetable beds that probably counted as light work and which she would describe as absolutely nothing when asked.
