The Language of the Dead by Stephen Kelly Page A

you require anything,” he said. “We also will return tomorrow and do a more thorough search of the house for evidence. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but hopefully we won’t be in your way for too long.”
    Lydia nodded her assent and wiped her nose.
    Outside the cottage, the faint sound of air-raid sirens some distance to the east impinged on the quiet. Lamb and Wallace had become used to distant sirens and understood that they had nothing to fear—at least for the moment—from such a far-off warning.
    â€œIt’s the bomber factory again, then, would you say?” Wallace said to Lamb.
    â€œProbably,” Lamb said.
    Lamb had considered saying something to Wallace about his performance that evening—praising it while, at the same time, hinting that he knew of Wallace’s drinking and was watching the situation. But at the moment this seemed to him not worth the trouble.
    â€œDo we need to get under bloody cover?” Rivers asked. He looked at the sky. As had Lamb, Rivers had learned in the first war never totake a warning of danger for granted. Those who did normally ended up with their stupid, bleeding heads blown off.
    â€œNot until the ground begins to shake,” Wallace said. He was joking—a joke Rivers didn’t seem to get. A bombing was nothing to joke about, of course, and, at first, almost no one had joked about the Germans. But most people did so now, at least occasionally. Oddly, at times joking seemed the only sane thing to do under the circumstances.
    â€œYeah,” Rivers said, eyeing Wallace with a hint of mistrust. “I see.”
    â€œNothing to worry about,” Wallace added. “If they do decide to come here, you’ll know.”
    Lamb turned to Harris.
    â€œCan you get me a copy of a book the title of which is something along the lines of
Ghostly Legends of Hampshire
?” Lamb asked. “It was written by Lord Pembroke, apparently. Do you know it?”
    â€œYes, sir. I think I know where I can get my hands on a copy.”
    â€œGood man.”
    Lamb, Wallace, and Rivers walked to Lamb’s Wolseley.
    â€œI’ll arrange to conduct a search of the house tomorrow morning,” Lamb said. “After that’s done, we’ll begin a proper canvassing of the village.”
    â€œWhat about Abbott?” Rivers asked.
    â€œI haven’t forgotten about him,” Lamb said.
    â€œHe and the niece are up to something.”
    â€œAll right, then,” Lamb said, ignoring Rivers’s protestation. “We’ll see you tomorrow, David.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Wallace was certain that he’d made it through the evening without Lamb catching on to him. Even so, he had cut it very close—
too
close—and decided that he must watch himself more carefully in the future.

SIX

    PETER WILKINS SAT IN THE DECREPIT SUMMERHOUSE LEAFING THROUGH
Walton’s Field Guide to Butterflies
, the kerosene lamp burning beside him.
    Adonis Blue, Brown Hairstreak, Duke of Burgundy, Scarce Copper, Sooty Copper, Brown Argus, Chalkhill Blue, Purple Hairstreak … Hesperiidae, Lycaenidae, Nymphalidae, Papilionidae, Pieridae … Skippers, Hairstreaks, Dukes, Emperors, Admirals, Browns, Swallowtails
.
    Cole Porter’s “You’re the Top” spun on the wind-up Victrola. Its repetitive refrain soothed Peter.
    You’re the top!
    You’re the Coliseum
.
    You’re the top!
    You’re the Louvre Museum
.
    But the other words, the words in his mind, intruded:
I must!
He stood quickly, popping up like a jack-in-the-box, then sat again, agitated.
    White Letter Hairstreak, Scotch Argus, Queen of Spain Fritillary, Mountain Ringlet, Red Admiral, Small Heath
.
    Lord Pembroke had given him the Victrola and many records, but he did not like the other records. Lord Pembroke had given him
Walton’s Field Guide to Butterflies.
    You’re the top!
    You’re an arrow collar
.
    You’re the