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tle scared of her： I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of her scathing cross…examinations。 So all I said was； “I don’t know enough about it； to be honest。 Presumably the police have investigated the whole thing pretty thoroughly。”
“Yes。 Of course。”
She got off the bike and handed it to me and we started ascending through the scrub oak toward the road。 It was much calmer away from the sea。 The downpour had almost stopped and the rain had released rich； cold smells of earth and wood and herbs。 I could hear the ticking of the rear wheel as we walked。
“The police were very active at first；” she said； “but it’s all gone quiet lately。 I think the inquest was adjourned。 Anyway； they can’t be that concerned—they released Mike’s body last week and the embassy have flown it back to the UK。”
“Oh？” I tried not to sound too surprised。 “That seems very quick。”
“Not really。 It’s been three weeks。 They did an autopsy。 He was drunk and he drowned。 End of story。”
“But what was he doing on the ferry in the first place？”
She gave me a sharp look。 “That I don’t know。 He was a grown man。 He didn’t have to account for his every move。”
We walked on in silence and the thought occurred to me that McAra could easily have left the island for the weekend to visit Richard Rycart in New York。 That would explain why he’d written down Rycart’s number and also why he hadn’t told the Langs where he was going。 How could he？“So long； guys。 I’m just off to the United Nations to see your bitterest political enemy…”
We passed the house where I’d sought shelter from the downpour。 I kept an eye out for the old man； but the white clapboard property appeared as deserted as when I’d first seen it—so freezing； locked； and abandoned； in fact； that I half wondered if I might not have imagined the whole encounter。
Ruth said； “The funeral’s in London on Monday。 He’s being buried in Streatham。 His mother’s too ill to attend。 I’ve been thinking that perhaps I ought to go。 One of us should put in an appearance； and it doesn’t seem likely to be my husband。”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to leave him。”
“It rather looks as though he’s left me； wouldn’t you say？”
She didn’t talk anymore after that but started fumbling around for her hood again； even though she didn’t really need it。 I found it for her with my free hand and she pulled it up roughly； without thanking me； and walked on； slightly ahead； staring at the ground。
Barry was waiting for us at the end of the track in the minivan； reading a Harry Potter novel。 The engine was running and the headlights were on。 Occasionally； the big windscreen wiper scraped noisily across the glass。 He put aside his book with obvious reluctance； got out； opened up the rear door； and pushed the seats forward。 Between us we maneuvered the bike into the back of the van； then he returned to his place behind the wheel and I climbed in beside Ruth。
We took a different route from the one I’d cycled； the road twisting up a hill away from the sea。 The dusk was damp and gloomy； as if one of the massive storm clouds had failed to rupture but had gradually subsided to earth like a deflated airship and settled over the island。 I could understand why Ruth said the landscape reminded her of Cornwall。 The minivan’s headlights fell on wild； almost moorland country and in the side mirror I could just make out the luminous white horses flecking the waters of Vineyard Sound。 The heater was turned up full and I had to keep rubbing a porthole in the condensation to see where we were going。 I could feel my clothes drying； sticking to my skin； releasing the same faintly unpleasant odor of sweat and dry cleaning fluid I had smelled in McAra’s room。
Ruth didn’t speak for the whole of the journey。 She kept her back turned slightly toward me and stared out of the window。 But just as we passed the lights of the airport； her cold； hard hand moved across the seat and grasped mine。 I didn’t know what she was thinking； but I could guess； and I returned her pressure： even a ghost can show a little human sympathy from time to time。 In the rearview mirror； Barry’s eyes stared into mine。 As he indicated to turn right into the wood； the images of death and torture； and the words “for as in Adam all die” flickered briefly in the darkness； but as far as I could see the little hut was empty。 We rocked down the track toward the house。
ELEVEN
There may be occasions on which the subject will tell the ghost something that contradicts something else they have said； or something that the ghost already knows about them。 If that happens； it is important to mention it immediately。
Ghostwritin g
THE FIRST THING Idid when we got back was run a hot bath； tipping in half a bottle of organic bath oil （pine； cardamom； and ginger） I found in the bathroom cabinet。 While that was filling； I drew the curtains in the bedroom and peeled off my damp clothes。 Naturally； a house as modern as Rhinehart’s didn’t have anything so crudely useful as a radiator； so I left them where they fell； went into the bathroom； and stepped into the large tub。
Just as it’s worth getting really hungry occasionally； simply to savor the taste of food； so the pleasure of a hot bath can truly be appreciated only if you’ve been chilled by the rain for hours。 I groaned with relief； let myself slide right down until only my nostrils were above the aromatic surface； and lay there like some basking alligator in its steamy lagoon for several minutes。 I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear anyone knock on my bedroom door and became aware that someone was next door only when I broke the surface and heard a person moving around。
“Hello？” I called。
“Sorry；” Ruth called back。 “I did knock。 It’s me。 I was just bringing you some dry clothes。”
“That’s all right；” I said。 “I can manage。”
“You need something that’s been properly aired； or you’ll catch your death。 I’ll get Dep to clean the others。”
“Really； there’s no need。”
“Dinner’s in an hour。 Is that okay？”
“That’s fine；” I said； surrendering。 “Thank you。”
I listened for the click of the door as she left。 Immediately I rose from the bath and grabbed a towel。 On the bed； she had laid out a freshly laundered shirt belonging to her husband （it was handmade； with his monogram； APBL； on the pocket）； a sweater； and a pair of jeans。 Where my own discarded clothes had been there was only a wet mark on the floor。 I lifted the mattress—the package was still there—then let it fall。
There was something disconcerting about Ruth Lang。 You never knew where you were with her。 Sometimes she could be aggressive for no reason—I hadn’t forgotten her behavior during our first conversation； when she virtually accused me of planning to write a kiss…and…tell memoir about her and Lang—and then at others she was bizarrely overfamiliar； holding hands or dictating what you should wear。 It was as if some tiny mechanism was missing from her brain； the bit that told you how to behave naturally with other people