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“Does the name Michael McAra mean anything to you？”
“No。 Should it？” He answered just a touch too quickly； I thought。
“McAra was my predecessor on the Lang memoirs；” I said。 “He was the one who ordered the pictures from England。 He drove up here to see you nearly three weeks ago and died a few hours afterward。”
“Drove up to seeme ？” Emmett shook his head。 “I’m afraid you’re mistaken。 Where was he driving from？”
“Martha’s Vineyard。”
“Martha’s Vineyard！ My dear fellow；nobody is on Martha’s Vineyard at this time of year。”
He was teasing me again： anyone who had watched the news the previous day would have known where Lang had been staying。
I said； “The vehicle McAra was driving had your address programmed into its navigation system。”
“Well； I can’t think why that should be the case。” Emmett stroked his chin and seemed to weigh the matter carefully。 “No； I really can’t。 And even if it’s true； it certainly doesn’t prove he actually made the journey。 How did he die？”
“He drowned。”
“I’m very sorry to hear it。 I’ve never believed the myth that death by drowning is painless； have you？ I’m sure it must be agonizing。”
“The police never said anything to you about this？”
“No。 I’ve had no contact with the police whatsoever。”
“Were you here that weekend？ This would have been January the eleventh and twelfth。”
Emmett sighed。 “A less equable man than I would start to find your questions impertinent。” He came out from behind his desk and went over to the door。 “Nancy！” he called。 “Our visitor wishes to know where we were on the weekend of the eleventh and twelfth of January。 Do we possess that information？” He stood holding the door open and gave me an unfriendly smile。 When Mrs。 Emmett appeared； he didn’t bother to introduce me。 She was carrying a desk diary。
“That was the Colorado weekend；” she said and showed the book to her husband。
“Of course it was；” he said。 “We were at the Aspen Institute。” He flourished the page at me。
“‘Bipolar Relationships in a Multi…polar World。’”
“Sounds fun。”
“It was。” He closed the diary with a definitive snap。 “I was the main speaker。”
“You were there the whole weekend？”
“I was；” said Mrs。 Emmett。 “I stayed for the skiing。 Emmett flew back on Sunday； didn’t you；
darling？”
“So you could have seen McAra；” I said to him。
“I could have； but I didn’t。”
“Just to return to Cambridge—” I began。
“No；” he said； holding up his hand。 “Please。 If you don’t mind； let’snot return to Cambridge。 I’ve
said all I have to say on the matter。 Nancy？” She must have been twenty years his junior； and she jumped when he addressed her in a way no
first wife ever would。
“Emmett？”
“Show our friend here out； would you？”
As we shook hands； he said； “I am an avid reader of political memoirs。 I shall be sure to get hold
of Mr。 Lang’s book when it appears。”
“Perhaps he’ll send you a copy；” I said； “for old time’s sake。”
“I doubt it very much；” he replied。 “The gate will open automatically。 Be sure to make a right at the bottom of the drive。 If you turn left； the road will take you deeper into the woods and you’ll never be seen again。”
MRS。 EMMETT CLOSED THEdoor behind me before I’d even reached the bottom step。 I could sense her husband watching me from the window of his study as I walked across the damp grass to the Ford。 At the bottom of the drive； while I waited for the gate to open； the wind moved suddenly through the branches of the high trees on either side of me； laying a heavy lash of rainwater across the car。 It startled me so much I felt the hairs on the back of my head stand out in tiny spikes。
I pulled out into the empty road and headed back the way I had come。 I felt slightly unnerved； as if I’d just descended a staircase in the darkness and missed the bottom few steps。 My immediate priority was to get clear of those trees。
Turn around where possible。
I stopped the Ford； grabbed the navigation system in both hands； and twisted and yanked it at the same time。 It came away from the front panel with a satisfying twang of breaking cables； and I tossed it into the foot well on the passenger’s side。 At the same time I became aware of a large black car with bright headlights coming up close behind me。 It overtook the Ford too quickly for me to see who was driving； accelerated up to the junction； and disappeared。 When I looked back； the country lane was once again deserted。
It’s curious how the processes of fear work。 If I’d been asked a week earlier to predict what I might do in such a situation； I’d have said that I’d drive straight back to Martha’s Vineyard and try to put the whole business out of my mind。 In fact； I discovered； Nature mingles an unexpected element of anger in with fear； presumably to encourage the survival of the species。 Like a caveman confronted by a tiger； my instinct at that moment was not to run； it was somehow to get back at the supercilious Emmett—the sort of crazy； atavistic response that leads otherwise sane householders to chase armed burglars down the street； usually with disastrous results。
So instead of sensibly trying to find my way back to the interstate； I followed the road signs to Belmont。 It’s a sprawling； leafy； wealthy town of terrifying cleanliness and orderliness—the sort of place where you need a license just to keep a cat。 The neat streets； with their flagpoles and their four…by…fours； slipped by； seemingly identical。 I cruised along the wide boulevards； unable to get my bearings； until at last I came to something that seemed to resemble the middle of town。 This time； when I parked my car； I took my suitcase with me。
I was on a road called Leonard Street； a curve of pretty shops with colored canopies set against a backdrop of big bare trees。 One building was pink。 A coating of snow； melted at the edges； covered the gray roofs。 It could have been a ski resort。 It offered me various things I didn’t need—a real estate agent； a jeweler； a hairdresser—and one thing I did： an internet café。 I ordered coffee and a bagel and took a seat as far away from the window as I could。 I put my case on the chair opposite； to discourage anyone from joining me； sipped my coffee； took a bite out of my bagel； clicked on Google； typed in “Paul Emmett” ＋ “Arcadia Institution；” and leaned toward the screen。
ACCORDING TO WWW。ARCADIAINSTITUTION。ORG；the Arcadia Institution was founded in August 1991 on the fiftieth anniversary of the first summit meeting between Prime Minister Winston S。 Churchill and President Franklin D。 Roosevelt； at Placentia Bay in Newfoundland。 There was a photograph of Roosevelt on the deck of a U。S。 battleship； wearing a smart gray suit； receiving Churchill； who was about a head shorter and dressed in some peculiar rumpled； dark blue naval outfit； complete with a cap。 He looked like a crafty head gardener paying his respects to a local squire。
The aim of the institution； the