She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed. Leonardo was to me nothing at all. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. “I saw him stagger and sink down, and the pistol was smoking still in my hand. What were you doing at Remenham House? I can’t puzzle that bit out.
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