Only one showed light. The tall woman led me toward the lighted one. She wore boots, a loose one-piece wool dress, and nothing else against the ten-degree cold but an enormous red-and-white-striped scarf. She strode out like one of those old fanatics leading a crusade. Inside, the main room of the cottage was bright and well-furnished. She led me through into a smaller room without even a glance at the expensive furniture. In the small room there were a narrow bed, straight chairs, two worn bureaus, an old desk piled with papers, and a shabby dining table. A monk’s cell. “Sit down,” she said. I sat. She sat at the desk. I saw her clearly, and she was a girl: a tall, lanky girl of about twenty-five, with a long solemn face. “I’m Morgana. You’re investigating Uncle Jonathan’s death?” “I suppose I am.” “You think someone here really killed him?” “I don’t think anything yet. Do you?” “I think that a total stranger is a bit too convenient. My uncle was a strong and clever man.
