The street the lorry driver let him out at was utterly deserted. Bosworth looked doubtfully around and said, "Are you sure you want to be let out here, mate? This is a dodgy sort of place, 'specially for a young kid like you."

Harry said, "Yeah. This is it. And I'm older than I look." He added, "Thank you. I, erm, do you...that is, I don't have any money. My friends'll lend me some till I start my job though. So, if you give me your address, I'll send you the cost of the petrol." He felt more embarrassed than usual. He hadn't even thought before to ask if the man wanted money.

Bosworth looked at him and said, "You're welcome. And I don't need any money, I was going through here anyway. But if you ever do get that job, you can look me up and buy me a pint. Ruxton Transport. It's in the phone book."

Harry said, "Thank you." He tugged his trunk and the birdcage down off the trunk and set off toward the Leaky Cauldron. He was beyond tired now, and thought hopefully of a soft bed and sleep

The thought of the Leaky Cauldron and a familiar friendly face energized him. Harry picked up his trunk and carried it as fast as he could the rest of the way. The bookstore on one side of the Leaky Cauldron was dark, as was the record store on the other. The sign of the Leaky Cauldron swayed in the soft summer night breeze. The window of the inn was dark, but then it always was. Harry pushed at the door to enter, but it didn't give. He tried again with no result. He leaned against the door and thought; they must lock it after midnight or something. He tried knocking and called softly,

"Hello. Is anybody there? Tom?" He waited. No one answered. He tried to open the door again and knocked harder this time. There was no answer. Harry thought, could they know it's me? Do they already know I'm expelled? He had no clue. Was he really expelled so summarily? And why had they left him his wand? He pulled it out and tried tapping on the door with it, but still no one answered. His eyes were burning now, and blurring with weariness. He took off his glasses and rubbed them and looked again. The sign was there, The Leaky Cauldron. It was just as it had always been. Harry knocked again, banged on the door and shouted,

"Is anyone there? Let me in!" No one answered. Harry sat on his trunk and tried to think what to do. Going back to the dursleys was out of the question. If he showed up there, they probably wouldn't let him back in. If he showed up, they'd probably blame him for Dudley's troubles and ... he didn't want to think about that. He thought, I'd just have to try the Ministry. Surely they wouldn't refuse him a hearing? And if he was truly expelled, not just from school, but also from the wizard world itself, did that mean Voldemrot would no longer try to find him? Did that mean he was safe from Voldemort? Somehow, Harry didn't think so.

As if the thought of Voldemort had opened some crack inside him, Harry began to laugh. He laughed loudly, furiously, joyously, madly, endlessly, without any control whatsoever. A pain in his cheek brought him back to his senses. He was lying in the street and every bit of him was an ache, or a bruise, or a bump, or a pain; but none of that was as hurtful as the thought that he was alone. Sirius was dead, and he was alone.

A piece of him rebelled at that. Ron would never desert him. Hermione would never desert him. Mrs. Weasley would never desert him. She had said he was as good as a son. He would try the Ministry. Surely Mr. Weasley would let him in and help him. He picked up his trunk, but it was too heavy. He considered taking out his broom and bewitching everything, but thought better of it. If he wanted to persuade anyone to take him back, he had to avoid using magic now. He tugged the trunk along behind him and tried to remember how far the Ministry was from The Leaky Cauldron. He kept walking.

He thought about trying to go to Number 12 Grimmauld Place, which had been the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, which Dumbledore had founded to fight Voldemort and the Death Eaters. But he wasn't at all sure they would be there any more. Sirius's family had all been purebloods, and many of them were sympathetic to Voldemort or actually Death Eaters themselves. Harry had no idea if the house on Grimmauld Place was still being used by the Order and thought he dared not go there to find out.

Harry kept walking and walking. It was a challenge now, to get to the street where the Ministry had its public entrance. He could do it. It was no worse than writing "I will not lie" for Professor Umbridge, over and over again in his own blood. He kept walking.

The sky had started to lighten with the first faint streaks of dawn when Harry arrived at the phone booth that concealed the public entrance to the Ministry of Magic. The phone booth had a sign on it that said "Out of Order." Harry went in anyway. He dialed the number, 62442, and waited for the cool, impersonal female voice to ask his name and business. No one answered. He shook his head thinking he had dialed wrong and tried again. Slowly, carefully, he punched the numbers in one at a time--6, 2, 4, 4, 2. M, A, G, I, C. But there was no answer. His hands were shaking as he tried again. And again. But there was no answer.

He stepped out of the phone booth and looked again. It was the right one, he was sure of it. He had been here twice. He went in again and tried once more. But there was no answer. He banged the phone against the wall of the booth in a fury of rage, of exhaustion, of despair. He was truly expelled, he thought with disbelief. He was an outcast from his own kind. He was unwelcome anywhere. Harry staggered out of the booth and wandered down the street, tugging his trunk behind him. He kept walking. A block, two blocks, three. He was no longer sure where he was. There was a green park ahead and an empty bench beckoned. He shoved his trunk and Hedwig's empty cage beneath the bench and wondered if even Hedwig would find him now. Would they let her find him? He was shivering with cold and exhaustion. He tugged the trunk back out and found his Dad's Invisibility Cloak. Funny, he thought. The police officer, Griffiths, hadn't even seen or noticed the cloak. He closed up the trunk and shoved it under the bench again. He curled up on the bench pillowing his head on his arms and flung the cloak over himself and hoped it fell low enough to conceal his trunk as well. Perhaps he didn't even care if it did. He slept.

Superintendent Masters was not happy. More than twenty-four hours had passed since the death of Nancy Bell and they had no suspects. Not only did they have no suspects, they now had the possibility that seven deaths were connected, not just three.

"I don't see how deaths fifty some odd years ago connect," Masters said coldly over the phone. Edgar couldn't blame him. He'd had a glimpse of the news report from the TV in the Great Hangleton Inn's lounge.

Edgar said, "I understand, sir. But if you think about it, it seems very unlikely that the death last year of Frank Bryce right here in Little Hangleton in the same manner could be unconnected. And if his is connected, then what are the odds that the old ones where he was charged are too?"

Masters said, "Very well, very well. I suppose I put you on this in the first place because you've got a bit of a flair for closing cases. Just stay away from the reporters, you hear? I'll handle them."

Edgar said, "Don't worry, sir. The last thing I want is to talk to reporters." Fay rolled her eyes at him. He had the rather uncharitable thought that Fay would love to be interviewed by reporters. And with her looks, they'd probably love to get her on TV, too. Edgar pocketed his mobile phone and gathered up his notbeook and file.

"Let's go," he said, "I want to get over to Little Hangleton and get a look at the place where this Frank Bryce died. Then we can stop in their local for lunch and see what they have to tell us." He didn't wait for Fay to acknowledge him. He strode out the door and knew that she was annoyed with him by the clicking of her high heels behind him. He wondered how women managed to sound irritated just by the way their heels clacked. An inborn talent, maybe.

He irritated her further by sliding into the driver's seat of the car. This morning, he was in no mood to pacify anyone, especially not a Detective Sergeant who had to listen to him and liked to forget that. She must have wanted to punish him further, because she sat with her lovely long legs crossed and swung the free one loosely so that he had to concentrate to keep his eyes on the road.

Little Hangleton was so small it was hardly worth the name as a separate village, although Edgar had an inkling it might be older than the larger town that shared its name. There were two main streets that interesected at a common along which was situated a small pub and an even tinier market, that once upon a time might have been a little postal outlet. The houses were mostly small and cottagey and one or two might have had the original thatched roofs they were so old. There was an old, rather undistinguished looking church with a large field that had a scattering of graves and monuments, some dating back to teh fifteenth century. And in the distance from the field, a large manor house could be seen.

Edgar parked at the church. If they were lucky, the vicar would be the type that talked to everyone and knew everyone's business. He hoped they weren't going to get one of those unworldly ones who couldn't even keep his parishioners' names straight. They knocked first at the tiny vicarage, which was right next door to the church. No one answered. Edgar peered into the front window, but saw no movement inside. He shrugged and led the way over to the church.

The gothic arched front door was open, something you'd never see in London. The inside was cool and dim, and was made remarkable by the lacy fan-vaulting on the pure white ceiling. The vicar, an elderly man, was talking to an even older lady who seemed to be hard of hearing. They were discussing the flower arrangements for the upcoming jumble sale and when Edgar interrupted them, had the identical look of offended baby lambs. The vicar snapped at them,

"What is it you're wanting?" His rheumy black eyes were surprisingly sharp in the wrinkly old face.

Edgar said, "We wondered whether you could talk to us for a few moments about Frank Bryce. He was a parishioner of yours, wasn't he?"

The vicar said, "Frank Bryce was no parishioner of mine. Never stepped foot in here after he returned from the war. But I knew him, all right."

Fay smiled at him prettily and said, "What was he like, then?" The vicar's face softened minutely.

"Frank was a good fellow. Before the war, he was friendly and outgoing. Liked his cricket, and he had ambitions. He was going to go to one of those schools for agriculture, but that all went by the wayside after the war. He was changed, he was. Odd and suspicious and he couldn't play cricket anymore on account of his bum leg. Unfriendly even with those of us he'd known forever."

Edgar thought, this is a miracle, "Were you here when he was arrested for the Riddles' murders?"

The vicar said, "Oh, I was here. And that was a real to do. I never thought Frank did them, but there's a few in this village'll tell you to this day he did, and say he got what he deserved last year."

"Did you know the Riddles too?" Fay asked.

"That I did," said the vicar. "They came to chruch regular, every Sunday and had their own pew dedicated since 1899. Mind you, not everyone liked them, the Riddles." The old lady had been listening in.

She said, "High and mighty they thought they were. There's some as say they got what they deserved, too. I always thought so meself." The old lady nodded her head and her sparse white hair shone in the dim light.

Edgar said, "Why did you think that?"

The old lady drew herself up to her full four feet and nine inches. "Well, the son, Tom Riddle, he was, he went and married a girl from the village. Crazy about her, he was, and never mind the parents didn't approve of him marrying beneath him."

"And, what happened?" Edgar prompted.

"Well," the old lady said, "they were happy the first months of the marriage, especially when the girl announced she was having a baby. But after a few months, he threw her out. Wouldn't have anything to do with her and disowned the child, even though it wasn't born."

Fay had narrowed her eyes. Edgar could tell she was thinking, what on earth did a failed romance from sixty, maybe seventy years ago have to do with the murder of Nancy Bell.

He asked, "Did Riddle think the child wasn't his?"

"Oh, no," the old lady said. "Nobody thought that. No, he threw her out because she was a witch and he didn't hold with that. Said she'd bewitched him to make him fall in love with her so she could marry the only wealthy man in the village." Edgar deliberately didn't look at Fay.

Here it was again. He asked, "What do you mean, she was a witch?"

The vicar said, "Why she did magic, of course." He added, "There's been several families in Little Hangleton and around the area that are known to have been witches for centuries. Didn't stop them, most of them, from coming to church either. No, she was a real witch, she was. Cured my warts when I was a boy with a wave of her wand."

Edgar said, "So what happened to the girl and the baby after Riddle threw her out."

The old lady said, "Now that was a sad story, that was. The girl moved back to her cottage and she was in terrible straights, see, because everyone thought she'd done something bad to make Tom Riddle throw her out. Then she died just after the babe was born and he was sent off to an orphanage because the Riddles wouldn't have anything to do with him and she had no relatives left to take him in."

Fay said, "Did anyone ever hear from the baby, the boy again?"

The vicar said, "Oh no. After the Riddles died, the house was sold off several times, but no one ever heard from that babe again."

Fay looked at Edgar. This was a motive, a good old-fashioned clear-cut motive. If the son had grown up and learned of his mother's treatment at the hands of his family, could he have been the one behind the Riddles' deaths? And if so, how? And what did it have to do with Nancy Bell? Masters would not be happy if they solved a cold case that was fifty years old and couldn't manage to solve the one from yesterday that was right in front of them.

Edgar asked, "Would it be all right if we walked through the cemetary up to the Riddles' old house?"

"Of course, of course," said the vicar. "I'll walk you out there myself. I can show you the graves where they're buried, if you like."

Fay said, "The Riddles? What about Frank Bryce?"

"His, too," the vicar answered. The cemetary was rather overgrown, as if few visitors ever came there, and Edgar concluded that no one was helping the vicar care for the grounds anymore. Frank Bryce's grave was the newest. A simple white headstone gave the name and the date of his death and had the words, "He Fought for His Country" engraved on it.

"What do you think happened to Frank Bryce," Edgar asked the vicar.

The vicar said simply, "It's a mystery. A mystery. Perhaps," he added, "you'll be the one to solve it. I think you've got eyes that see a long way, Inspector." Fay was choking back a snort of laughter. Edgar was more annoyed with her than ever. But perhaps he was really being too uncharitable. Perhaps he was seeing ghosts where none existed, Ghosts of his own past, imagined into the present.

There were three graves for the Riddles. There were the parents judging by the dates of birth, who were laid side by side. In a plot off to the left a bit, and slightly away from all the rest was Tom Riddle's grave. The headstone on this one was taller than Frank Bryce's had been, presumably because the Riddles had money. Edgar noticed that the grass about this grave was newer than the grass about the parents' graves. In fact, it looked as though something had disturbed the grave and not all that long ago. He bent closer to take a look. There was a long brownish streak running down the white marble. It wasn't mold, because it didn't come off when Edgar ran a fingernail over it.

"Do you know what that is?" Edgar asked the vicar.

The vicar peered at the headstone with rheumy eyes and said, "No. Can't say I do."

Edgar said, "When was the last time anyone come out here? Or tidied the graves?"

The vicar said slowly, "It's interesting you ask that, Inspector. Frank Bryce's burial was the last offical visit of any kind. That's a little less than two years ago now. But there was somebody out here messing around the cemetary, maybe, oh, a little over a year ago. And every so often, I've seen lights flashing in the window of the big house." He nodded at the Riddle House and continued, "But every time I see them, I've called the police and by the time they get here from town, no one's there. I stopped calling, to tell the truth. They think it's just kids, and the Constable says they're not a private security service for the rich guy that keeps it as a tax loss."

Fay was looking from the house, to the cemetary to the footpath that led away from the green field and toward the river. Edgar could see the wheels turning in her clever mind. He could follow them himself right down the footpath to the riverbank where Nancy Bell had been found dead.

Edgar said, "And you, do you think its kids playing?"

The vicar frowned and his rheumy eyes were thoughtful. "I can't say."

Fay asked, "When was the last time you saw the lights up at the house?"

The vicar said even more thoughtfully, "Wasn't but a couple of nights ago. Brighter than usual in fact, and they must have brought some kind of colored lanterns because they were flashing green and red. There was a big green flash and then they went out."

Edgar stared at the old man. He could feel the color draining out of his face and the shiver that ran from his head to his toes and up again was as if the cold hand of death coming were shaking him.

Edgar stepped past the grave to get a better look at the house, but he stepped on something and tripped, falling face down in the cool grass. He swore softly under his breath and gave an apologetic look toward the vicar, who unexepectedly, chuckled. He pushed himself up on his hands and something sharp stuck him. He felt around for the sharp thing thinking it must be a piece of marble that had crumbled off one of the graves. A long hard object was half buried in the grass. A knife, dirty and encrusted with some hard brown substance. Blood, he thought, even money that it's blood. Something else was clinging to it. A few strands of fiber. He cast around, and nearly buried in the grass was a long strand of rope. The rope was falling apart from exposure to the dirt and the elements. Its ends, however, were sharp, as if they had been cleanly cut through--by the knife, he wondered.

Along with the green mold and black dirt, there were more brown stains on the rope. Edgar felt the chill again, only this time it was more like being frozen in a vacuum. It was hard to breathe and he thought, where's this one? He'd seen Frank Bryce's autopsy report, and there hadn't been a mark on him anymore than there had been on Nancy Bell. For a moment, he thought of Sarah Bell, missing for nearly sixteen years. But that didn't fit. The rope would have disintegrated in that time altogether. And the knife, that would have been more rusted, also nearly completely corroded, as this one was not.

Fay's eyes widened when she saw the knife and the rope, and the black pupils in her brilliant blue eyes contracted suddenly, as if the narrower focus could remove the emotional reflex the items must induce in favor of the objectivity of a simple observation.

Edgar brushed the dirt off his suit and pasted on a look of calm. He cast around for something to put the knife and the rope into. Fortunately, the ever-prepared Fay had several plastic evidence bags tucked into her purse, which was quite large enough to serve as a briefcase at need.

He put them in separate bags and Fay labeled them in her tidy handwriting. Did they have anything to do with Nancy Bell's death? He'd bet anything they did. Edgar brushed the dirt off his suit again and was irritated to see it would have to go to the cleaners immediately. Worse, he'd now gotten his own blood on it, so that the grey suit had a stain right at the knee.

Fay caught his hand and said, "You'd better get a tetanus shot if you haven't had one lately. God knows what was on that knife." She said more sharply, "Hold still, you idiot. I've got a small first aid kit here. It's better disinfected as soon as possible. You don't want that going septic on you."

Edgar held quite still and breathed in her faint perfume, a pleasant mossy scent, with a hint of flowers. He thought that he could get to really like Fay Kray, as sharp and smart and all-knowing though she was.

The iodine she dabbed stung and she muttered with annoyance at the dirt that hadn't come out as she wrapped a bit of gauze around his hand and taped it on.

He said, "Thanks, Fay," and nodded at the house. "Come on. One more place to look at before lunch." He added, "And then I can use a pint, or maybe even two."

She looked at him with a frown and said, "That's given you a bit of a jolt, hasn't it?"

When he didn't answer immediately, as he was mortally embarrassed of showing any weakness in front of the woman he'd been promoted over, she said, "Never mind. I guess you're human after all."

He stared after her as she led the way up to the Riddle House, her long legs eating up the distance in a smooth graceful stride. That was another annoying thing about women, he thought. How did they manage to walk with any grace in those ridiculous high heels? He also wondered whether she would have gotten the Inspector slot if she'd kowtowed to the male establishment and worn more masculine clothing and shoes.

The Riddle House was a substantial house going to seed. There were formal gardens that were now overgrown with weeds. Edgar supposed that no one had taken care of them since Frank Bryce had died. The house itself had several cracked and boarded windows and there was ivy overgrown on the stonewalls. There was a sign that said, "Trespassers will be prosecuted" and the front door had a heavy lock and chain on it. However, when Edgar gave a sharp rap on the door, it opened up. He saw that the lock and chain had been neatly cut and re-hung to give the appearance that the house was locked. He pushed further in and called out

"Police! Is any one here?" Only silence greeted him. He stepped forward into a spacious foyer and listened. Once again, his flesh crawled and he tested the air with all his senses trying to feel if this were some kind of a trap.

Fay said, "It's deserted. Come on," and she walked ahead of him into the large lounge that opened out of the foyer. He had an urge to pull her back, but restrained himself and followed.

There was a large wing-back chair facing the empty fireplace and several other chairs scattered around. All the furniture was dusty, faded and frayed and the carpet had some kind of unidentifiable stains on it. The fireplace had a scattering of ashes in it. Edgar picked up a dulled brass poker and poked at the ashes. There didn't seem to be aynthing there, but the ashes underneath were dark black, as if the fire had been burning withn the last few days only. Fay was looking at the other things. She had picked up a blackened metal photo frame.

Edgar supposed it must be silver and hadn't been polished in over fifty years. He went over to look at it. A picture showed a tallish man standing next to a slender woman with black hair. The photo was black and white, but he thought the woman's eyes must have been light, blue or green or grey. The woman was wearing a white wedding gown and had a triumphant smile, as if she had won some secret game.

Edgar wandered over to the wing chair. On a table next to it stood a single crystal glass. The glass was perfectly clean and hadn't a particle of dust on it. On a shelf next the fireplace, there was a matching decanter. It was also quite clean and full of a clear, blue liquid. He picked it up and lifted off the plug and sniffed.

Fay said, "Don't do that! For all you know that's the chemical that killed them all!"

Edgar raised his eyebrows and said, "So you do think they were murdered?"

She met his eyes furiously and said, "Maybe. If that rope and knife have anything to do with it. If the lights here two nights ago have anything to do with it. But there's no reason for you to lose your brains and forget your basic safety measures, even if they all died naturally."

Edgar said, "Yes. Well if it's of any interest, they probably didn't die from this stuff. It's alcohol. Whisky of some kind, if I'm not mistaken." He didn't add, and not a brand you'll find just anywhere. Old Ogden's Firewhisky wasn't for sale in very many places. At least, that's what he thought it was. He hadn't smelled it in sixteen years. Not since he'd left his house for a bit of fresh air and smelled it on his dad's breathe on the way out; the very last time he had seen his dad alive.

The kitchen showed more signs of recent habitation. A trail of breadcrumbs was fresh enough to draw the attention of a string of ants and there was a pile of crockery in the sink unwashed. It looked as if whoever had been here had hastily left and didn't care now whether their presence was discovered or not.

Edgar said, "Let's get that checked out. Maybe they've left enough saliva traces to get a DNA i.d."