I carefully returned the letter to my travel bag and paced the room I had taken at a bed-and-breakfast in Wisteria, Maryland. After airport security, a sixhour transatlantic flight, customs, and a two-hour ride in an airport shuttle to the Eastern Shore town, I longed for a decent cup of tea, but the sooner I got this over with, the better. I headed downstairs to a small room equipped with a guest phone and punched in the number I had found in an Internet directory.

My call was answered on the third ring. "Mason's Choice."

For a moment I was confused, then I remembered that that was the name of the estate where Ashley had lived.

"May I speak with Mr. Westbrook, please, Adrian Westbrook."

"Who is calling?" asked a woman with a deep voice.

"Kate Venerelli."

"Excuse me?"

Aware that years of schooling in England had given me an accent more clipped than Americans were accustomed to, I repeated my name slowly.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Westbrook is not available."

"When may I call back?" I asked.

"You may leave a message with me now."

I hesitated. An image of a person I had long forgotten formed in my head: a cap of straight gray hair, a pale stone face, a mouth and forehead carved with disapproval. Mrs. Hopewell. It seemed as if the housekeeper should be 103 by now, but of course, when you are five, anyone older than your parents seems ancient to you. She was probably in her sixties.

"Thank you," I said politely, "but I would like to speak to Mr. Westbrook myself."

Click.

I stared at the phone-she had hung up. Quickly I dialed the number again. "May I speak with Mrs. Westbrook, please?" I knew from Dad's clients that rich old men always had wives, usually young, pretty ones.

"Who is calling?"

"Kate Venerelli." There was no reason to lie-I was certain the housekeeper took note of the number displayed on her phone and realized the same person was calling.