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were more houses here。 Mostly； they were vacation homes； shuttered up for the winter； but a couple of chimneys fluttered thin streamers of brown smoke； and from one house I heard a radio playing classical music。 A cello concerto。 That was when it started to rain at last—hard； cold pellets of moisture； almost hail； that exploded on my hands and face and carried the smell of the sea in them。 One moment they were plopping sporadically in the pond and rattling in the trees around me； and the next it was as if some great aerial dam had broken and the rain started to sweep down in torrents。 Now I remembered why I disliked cycling： bicycles don’t have roofs； they don’t have windshields； and they don’t have heaters。
The spindly； leafless scrub oaks offered no hope of shelter； but it was impossible to carry on cycling—I couldn’t see where I was going—so I dismounted and pushed my bike until I came to a low picket fence。 I tried to prop the bike against it； but the machine fell over with a clatter； its back wheel spinning。 I didn’t bother to pick it up but ran up the cinder path； past a flagpole； to the veranda of the house。 Once I was out of the rain； I leaned forward and shook my head vigorously to get the water out of my hair； and immediately a dog started barking and scratching at the door behind me。 I’d assumed the house was empty—it certainly looked it—but a hazy white moon of a face appeared at the dusty window blurred by the screen door； and a moment later the door opened and the dog flew out at me。
I dislike dogs almost as much as they dislike me； but I did my best to seem charmed by the hideous； yapping white furball； if only to appease its owner； an old…timer of not far off ninety to judge by the liver spots； the stoop； and the still…handsome skull poking through the papery skin。 He was wearing a well…cut sports jacket over a buttoned…up cardigan and had a plaid scarf round his neck。 I made a stammering apology for disturbing his privacy； but he soon cut me off。
“You’re British？” he said； squinting at me。
“I am。”
“That’s okay。 You can shelter。 Sheltering’s free。”
I didn’t know enough about America to be able to tell from his accent where he was from； or what he might have done。 But I guessed he was a retired professional and fairly well…off—you had to be； living in a place where a shack with an outside lavatory would cost you half a million dollars。
“British； eh？” he repeated。 He studied me through rimless spectacles。 “You anything to do with this feller Lang？”
“In a way；” I said。
“Seems intelligent。 Why’d he want to get himself mixed up with that damn fool in the White House？”
“That’s what everyone would like to know。”
“War crimes！” he said； with a roll of his head； and I caught a glimpse of two flesh…colored hearing aids； one in either ear。 “We could all have been charged with those！ And maybe we ought to have been。 I don’t know。 I guess I’ll just have to put my trust in a higher judgment。” He chuckled sadly。 “I’ll find out soon enough。”
I didn’t know what he was talking about。 I was just glad to be standing where it was dry。 We leaned on the weathered handrail and stared out together at the rain while the dog skittered dementedly on its claws around the veranda。 Through a gap in the trees I could just make out the sea—vast and gray； with the white lines of the incoming waves moving remorselessly down it； like interference on an old black…and…white TV。
“So what brings you to this part of the Vineyard？” asked the old man。
There seemed no point in lying。 “Someone I knew was washed up on the beach down there；” I said。 “I thought I’d take a look at the spot。 To pay my respects；” I added； in case he thought I was a ghoul。
“Nowthat was a funny business；” he said。 “You mean the British guy a few weeks ago？ Noway should that current have carried him this far west。 Not at this time of year。”
“What？” I turned to look at him。 Despite his great age； there was still something youthful about his sharp features and keen manner。 His thin white hair was combed straight back off his forehead。 He looked like an antique Boy Scout。
“I’ve known this sea most of my life。 Hell； a guy tried to throwme off that damn ferry when I was still at the World Bank； and I can tell you this： if he’d succeeded； I wouldn’t have floated ashore in Lambert’s Cove！”
I was conscious of a drumming in my ears； but whether it was my blood or the downpour hitting the shingle roof I couldn’t tell。
“Did you mention this to the police？”
“The police？ Young man； at my age； I have better things to do with what little time I have left than spend it with the police！ Anyway； I told all this to Annabeth。 She was the one who was dealing with the police。” He saw my blank expression。 “Annabeth Wurmbrand；” he said。 “Everybody knows Annabeth—Mars Wurmbrand’s widow。 She has the house nearest the ocean。” At my failure to react； he became slightly testy。 “She’s the one who told the police about the lights。”
“The lights？”
“The lights on the beach on the night the body was washed up。 Nothing happens round here that she doesn’t see。 Kay used to say she was always happy leaving Mohu in the fall； knowing she could be sure Annabeth would keep an eye on things all winter。”
“What kind of lights were these？”
“Flashlights； I guess。”
“Why wasn’t this reported in the media？”
“In the media？” He gave another of his grating chuckles。 “Annabeth’s never spoken to a reporter in her life！ Except maybe an editor from theWorld of Interiors。 It took her a decade even to trust Kay； because of thePost 。”
That started him off talking about Kay’s big old place up on Lambert’s Cove Road that Bill and Hillary used to like so much； and where Princess Diana had stayed； of which only the chimneys now remained； but by then I had stopped listening。 It seemed to me the rain had eased somewhat and I was eager to get away。 I interrupted。
“Do you think you could point me in the direction of Mrs。 Wurmbrand’s house？”
“Sure； but there’s not much point in going there。”
“Why not？”
“She fell downstairs two weeks ago。 Been in a coma ever since。 Poor Annabeth。 Ted says she’s never going to regain consciousness。 So that’s another one gone。 Hey！” he shouted； but by then I was halfway down the steps from the veranda。
“Thanks for the shelter；” I called over my shoulder； “and the talk。 I’ve got to get going。”
He looked so forlorn； standing there alone under his dripping roof； with the Stars and Stripes hanging like a dishrag from its slick pole； that I almost turned back。
“Well； tell your Mr。 Lang to keep his spirits up！” He gave me a trembling military salute and turned it into a wave。 “You take care now。”
I righted my bike and set off down the track。 I wasn’t even noticing the rain anymore。 About a quarter of a mile down the slope； in a clearing close to the dunes and the pond； was a big； low house surrounded by a wire fence and discreet signs announcing it was private property。 T