darkness, so that Fairman couldn't see the book until she clutched it to her breast. As she swung around her face twisted further to the left, and she seemed to find it hard to work her mouth. "I hope you're ready, Leonard," she said indistinctly. "There's your next step."
He had to extend both hands—he might almost have been reaching to take charge of an infant—before she relinquished the volume. As he took it she let out a breath that sounded capable of leaving her entire self hollow, and he saw the mayoress relax. It was the sixth volume, Of Things Seen by the Moon, with a colophon depicting a full moon where a lunar sea resembled the pupil of an eye. "Thank you," Fairman said, which seemed inadequate. "I hope your crisis will be resolved soon."
Rhoda Bickerstaff's face twisted leftward so convulsively that it seemed to drag the hairline of her greying curls askew. "Don't you really know what's going on here, Leonard?"
"The book was the only crisis," Eunice Spriggs told him. "Rhoda got a bit too used to looking after it, that's all."
"Is all this necessary?" Fairman said and stared at the police. "You mustn't think I'm being unprofessional, but when it comes right down to it, it's just a book."
"You're the last one I'd hope to hear saying that, Leonard."
He was disconcerted not just because it was Rhoda Bickerstaff who told him so but by a sense that at least one other person in the room might have. "I assure you I'll take care of it," he said, not without resentment. "Who's next on my list?"
"Eric Headon. He's our local historian."
This time it was the mayoress who spoke, but Fairman kept his eyes on Rhoda Bickerstaff. "You couldn't have told me that yesterday."
"That's not how things are done here, Leonard," Eunice Spriggs said.
"Why not?" Fairman demanded and turned on her. "How much do you know about all this?"
"All I need to," she said with an odd faraway look. "You will when it's time."
He oughtn't to be loitering, not least since the police had brought blank looks to bear on him. "Can someone give me Mr Headon's number?"
He had no idea who might respond until Rhoda Bickerstaff scrawled the information on the back of a Leafy Shade card that bore the slogan REST IS BEST. He was hurrying along the drive, and acutely relieved to have left the episode behind, when he glimpsed movement out of the corner of his eye. Had one of the residents fallen out of bed? Beyond a ground-floor window to his left a quilt was sprawling towards the floor. The pale shapeless object floundered out of sight beneath the low sill before he could distinguish it more clearly, but he couldn't have seen arms and legs protruding from it; nobody's limbs could be so unequal, in length as well as thickness. All the same, the bed was empty, and an occupant might have been entangled in the quilt. As Fairman thought of alerting someone, a uniformed nurse came into the room. His face grew blank as he saw what was there, and Fairman headed for his car.
He boxed up his prize and locked the boot, and then he hesitated. However uncomfortable the intervention of the mayoress and the police had made him, they'd helped him secure the book. Suppose the historian was as unforthcoming as Rhoda Bickerstaff had tried to be? Fairman might appreciate some official help, and so he phoned from outside the Leafy Shade. A somnolent hiss gave way to the simulation of a bell before a man mumbled "Yes."
There were fewer consonants to it than there might have been—perhaps none. "Mr Headon," Fairman said.
"Miss a fair un."
Was Headon drunk? He seemed to find it hard to shape his words. "That's who I am," Fairman nevertheless said.
"Goo to he fum you. Reach me alas."
"Good to speak to you. I'm sorry that I couldn't reach you sooner. Is it convenient to see you now?"
"Seem eel layer. Attach oh."
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."
"Lair. Lair." With a distinctly peevish effort Headon succeeded in pronouncing "Later. You'll be at the show."
"I may