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that Hever is full of secret activities which take place only under the cover of darkness.”
“You are doubtless right, but I find the scene before us now a full pleasure. It reminds me of my
boyhood, when I would often slip from my room while the rest of my family slept and walk the
meadows around our farm. My first ambition, believe it or not, was to be a shepherd.”
Rayley snorted.
“No,” Trevor said. “I assure you it was true, the fantasy largely fueled by evenings just like this one,
and the Biblical notion of keeping watch over one’s flock by night. You see, in the Christmas story –“
“I know the Christmas story well enough,” Rayley said. “Jew or not, one could scarcely have been
raised in London without full exposure to your romantic holiday tales. Do you think we shall witness
a virgin birth on this exalted evening?”
“Somehow I suspect virgins are running rather scarce in the district,” Trevor said. “But we are well
out of earshot and not being followed, so let us discuss the facts before us now. Shall I begin?”
“Fire away,” said Rayley. This was a stratagem they used back in London, when meeting with the
Thursday Night Murder Games Club. Each person would take turns simply stating the facts of the
case as he or she saw them, and it was curious how often this simple activity would shed new light on
an investigation. Often an innocuous seeming remark by one person would spark an insight in the
mind of another. Trevor liked to call these discussions “our shared mind,” and Rayley supposed that
tonight he must take the roles of Geraldine, Tom, Davy, and Emma as well as himself.
“We have a painter,” said Trevor. “A man possessed of considerable charisma, with enough talent to
talk his way into the homes of London families as a portrait artist and enough charm to then seduce the
daughters of those houses. Anne Arborton is certainly not the first girl he has dallied with, but do you
think she is the first who has followed him here to Hever?”
“I can’t say,” Rayley said. “Dorinda might know. As might John Paul.”
“Try and find out in the morning,” Trevor said. “His cast aside girls don’t simply dematerialize, as
much as they might wish to. They have to go somewhere. Who knows, some of them still may be
here, among the flock.”
“Do you think LaRusse is truly going mad?” Rayley asked, pausing to shake sheep dung from one
boot. “It might serve his purposes to appear to be a bit mad, you know. Charismatic types often rant
and rave and laugh and dance – the sheer display of emotion convinces their followers they are privy
to a deeper truth, that they see things which the rest of us can’t fathom.”
“Impossible to know at this juncture,” Trevor answered. “And if he is mad, it is equally difficult to
know if it is the paint or the drink or the Christmas Roses or even if his bizarre behavior is simply the
result of his natural disposition. We are at a disadvantage in that we don’t know the man’s past.
Perhaps Emma’s work back in London will shed some light on his history. Otherwise, we can’t
determine if he is going mad, which would imply some sort of shift in personality and possible foul
play, or if he has been mad all along.”
“And then we have Anne Arborton herself,” Rayley continued. “Based on what you overheard today,