What was he really doing in Reno?"

"Attending a conference, as he said.He also went there to look into a suspect in Helen Haggerty's murder."

"He must have been very fond of her,after all, to go to such lengths."

"He was involved with Miss Haggerty.I don't think the involvement was romantic."

"What was it then?"

"Financial. I think he was paying hermoney, and incidentally he got her a job at the college, through LauraSutherland. To put it bluntly, the Haggerty woman was blackmailing your son.She may have called it something different herself. But she used a crookedfriend in Reno to check on his bank balance before she ever came here. This wasthe same man Roy went to Reno to talk to."

Mrs. Bradshaw didn't throw a fit, as I wasafraid she might. She said in a grave tone: "Are these facts, Mr. Archer,or are you exercising your imagination?"

"I wish I were. I'm not."

"But how could Roy be blackmailed?He's led a blameless life, a dedicated life. I'm his mother. I ought toknow."

"That may be. But the standard variesfor different people. A rising college administrator has to be lily-white. Anunfortunate marriage, for instance, would queer his chances for that universitypresidency you were telling me about."

"An unfortunate marriage? But Roy hasnever been married."

"I'm afraid he has," I said."Does the name Letitia Macready mean anything to you?"

"It does not."

She was lying. The name drew a net oflines across her face, reduced her eyes to bright black points and her mouth toa purse with a drawstring. She knew the name and hated it, I thought; perhapsshe was even afraid of Letitia Macready.

"The name ought to mean something toyou, Mrs. Bradshaw. The Macready woman was your daughter-in-law."

"You must be insane. My son has nevermarried."

She spoke with such force and assurancethat I had a moment of doubt. It wasn't likely that Arnie had made a mistake—heseldom did—but it was possible that there were two Roy Bradshaws. No, Arnie hadtalked to Bradshaw's lawyer in Reno, and must have made a positiveidentification.

"You have to get married," Isaid, "before you can get a divorce. Roy got a Reno divorce a few weeksago. He was in Nevada establishing residence for it from the middle of Julytill the end of August."

"Now I know you're insane. He was inEurope all that time, and I can prove it." She got up, on creakingreluctant limbs, and went to the eighteenth-century secretary against one wall.She came back toward me with a sheaf of letters and postcards in her shakinghands. "He sent me these. You can see for yourself that he was inEurope."

I looked over the postcards. There wereabout fifteen of them, arranged in order: the Tower of London (postmarkedLondon, July i8), the Bodleian Library (Oxford, July 21), York Cathedral (York,July 25), Edinburgh Castle (Edinburgh, July 29), The Giant's Causeway(Londonderry, August 3), The Abbey Theatre (Dublin, August 6), Land's End (St.Ives, August 8), The Arc de Triomphe (Paris, August 12), and so on throughSwitzerland and Italy and Germany. I read the card from Munich (a view of theEnglish Gardens, postmarked August 25):

Dear Moms:

Yesterday I visited Hitler's eyrie atBerchtesgaden—a beautiful setting made grim by its associations—and today, byway of contrast, I took a bus to Oberammergau, where the Passion Play isperformed. I was struck by the almost Biblical simplicity of the villagers.This whole Bavarian countryside is studded with the most stunning littlechurches. How I wish you could enjoy them with me! I'm sorry to hear that yoursummer companion is presenting certain prickly aspects. Well, the summer willsoon be over and I for one will be happy to turn my back on the splendors ofEurope and come home. All my love.

Roy

I turned to Mrs. Bradshaw. "Is this your son'shandwriting?"

"Yes. It's unmistakable. I know he wrote thosecards, and these letters, too."

She brandished several letters under mynose. I looked at the postmarks: London, July 19; Dublin, August 7; Geneva,August 15; Rome, August 20; Berlin, August 27; Amsterdam, August 30. I startedto read the last one ("Dear Moms: Just a hasty note, which may arriveafter I do, to tell you how I loved your letter about the blackbirds . ..") but Mrs. Bradshaw snatched it out of my hand.

"Please don't read the letters. Myson and I are very close, and he wouldn't like me to show our correspondence toa stranger." She gathered all the letters and cards and locked them up inthe secretary. "I believe I've proved my point, that Roy couldn't havebeen in Nevada when you say he was.

For all her assurance, her voice wasquestioning. I said:

"Did you write letters to him whilehe was away?"

"I did. That is to say, I dictatedthem to Miss What's-hername, except for once or twice when my arthritis allowedme to write. I had a nurse-companion during the summer. Miss Wadley, her namewas. She was one of these completely selfcentered young women—"

I cut in: "Did you write a letterabout the blackbirds?"

"Yes. We had an invasion of them lastmonth. It was more of a fanciful little tale than a letter, having to do withblackbirds baked in a pie."

"Where did you send the blackbirdletter?"

"Where? I think to Rome, to AmericanExpress in Rome. Roy gave me an itinerary before he left here."

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009