Ashe.
  "Hello," said Walsingham, "who's this?"
  Ahead of them, no more than a silhouette in the dimming light, a figure was making its way towards them from the monastery gates.
  "Nigel," a voice shouted as the figure drew closer, "is that you?"
  "Sounds like Helen," Walsingham said. "What is she playing at coming out here?" He pulled his scarf away from his mouth, the better to project his voice. "Helen?" he called. He began to trot faster down the mountainside, clearly concerned as to what had brought his wife out into the cold.
  "Nigel," Helen sighed with palpable relief once they were face to face, "I came out to fetch you, something terrible's happened to Rhodes."
  "What is it?" Walsingham asked. "Some sort of accident?"
  Helen shook her head. "I wish." She struggled for a moment, as if uncertain how to express the news. Eventually she took the no-frills approach: "Someone's murdered him."
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4.
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Ashe felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, his simple plans were clearly about to complicate themselves.
  "Who's this?" Helen asked, looking at Ashe with undisguised suspicion.
  "What?" Walsingham was still trying to assimilate the news that one of his party was dead. "Oh⦠Mark Spencer, a colleague of Roger's, we met a little way up the mountain."
  "Really?" Helen replied. "How bizarre."
  "I'm actually here on Roger's behalf," Ashe explained. "I have an artifact that may be of interest to him."
  "We'll hear all about it later," she replied. "We have more important matters on hand for now."
  "Of course," Ashe nodded. "May I suggest we keep moving; you can explain everything once we're in the comfort of the monastery."
  "Spencer's right," agreed Walsingham, taking Helen's arm and leading her back the way she had come. "I can't believe the major let you out here on your own as it is."
  "He could hardly claim I would be safer at the monastery," she replied, "and our good doctor's suffering from one of his 'blue funks' again."
  "Dear Lord, the man's a liability." Walsingham was in shock, stumbling along in a twitchy state that wasn't due to the cold. "I can't believe it," he said, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the increasing volume of the monk's chanting. "Rhodes dead⦠but, darling, you must be overreacting⦠it can hardly be murder." He was asserting a sense of calming logic. "There must be an alternative explanation."
  "We found him in the stables with an ice pick in the back of his head," Helen countered. "He didn't end up like that by losing his footing."
  She was a cold hearted creature, Ashe thought. There seemed to be little sense of sadness at the death of one of her colleagues, more an irritation that her life had been cluttered up by the fact.
  They reached the entrance to the monastery, a tall set of wooden doors fixed into the stone wall. It made Ashe think of a Medieval castle, barricaded to repel invaders. Helen yanked at the cord of an iron bell, its chime bouncing between the walls of the valley as if the noise were a creature gleeful to be let loose. After a few moments the door opened, a slender monk stepping to one side to let them enter. He bowed as they filed past, his pointed hat looming towards their faces. He gave the ground a double tap with the base of the long pole he carried, a fighting stick, Ashe assumed.
  "Thank you," said Walsingham, giving a rather selfconscious bow in return.
  The door opened into a central courtyard. Ashe turned slowly, getting the lay of the land. A pair of monks worked their way around the perimeter, lighting heavy sconces in preparation for the night ahead. There was the thick smell of manure coming from what Ashe took to be the stables, a small, two-level outbuilding to the left of the courtyard. "That was where the body was found?" he asked, pointing.
  "Yes," Helen answered,
  "Hello," said Walsingham, "who's this?"
  Ahead of them, no more than a silhouette in the dimming light, a figure was making its way towards them from the monastery gates.
  "Nigel," a voice shouted as the figure drew closer, "is that you?"
  "Sounds like Helen," Walsingham said. "What is she playing at coming out here?" He pulled his scarf away from his mouth, the better to project his voice. "Helen?" he called. He began to trot faster down the mountainside, clearly concerned as to what had brought his wife out into the cold.
  "Nigel," Helen sighed with palpable relief once they were face to face, "I came out to fetch you, something terrible's happened to Rhodes."
  "What is it?" Walsingham asked. "Some sort of accident?"
  Helen shook her head. "I wish." She struggled for a moment, as if uncertain how to express the news. Eventually she took the no-frills approach: "Someone's murdered him."
Â
4.
Â
Ashe felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, his simple plans were clearly about to complicate themselves.
  "Who's this?" Helen asked, looking at Ashe with undisguised suspicion.
  "What?" Walsingham was still trying to assimilate the news that one of his party was dead. "Oh⦠Mark Spencer, a colleague of Roger's, we met a little way up the mountain."
  "Really?" Helen replied. "How bizarre."
  "I'm actually here on Roger's behalf," Ashe explained. "I have an artifact that may be of interest to him."
  "We'll hear all about it later," she replied. "We have more important matters on hand for now."
  "Of course," Ashe nodded. "May I suggest we keep moving; you can explain everything once we're in the comfort of the monastery."
  "Spencer's right," agreed Walsingham, taking Helen's arm and leading her back the way she had come. "I can't believe the major let you out here on your own as it is."
  "He could hardly claim I would be safer at the monastery," she replied, "and our good doctor's suffering from one of his 'blue funks' again."
  "Dear Lord, the man's a liability." Walsingham was in shock, stumbling along in a twitchy state that wasn't due to the cold. "I can't believe it," he said, his voice quiet, almost lost beneath the increasing volume of the monk's chanting. "Rhodes dead⦠but, darling, you must be overreacting⦠it can hardly be murder." He was asserting a sense of calming logic. "There must be an alternative explanation."
  "We found him in the stables with an ice pick in the back of his head," Helen countered. "He didn't end up like that by losing his footing."
  She was a cold hearted creature, Ashe thought. There seemed to be little sense of sadness at the death of one of her colleagues, more an irritation that her life had been cluttered up by the fact.
  They reached the entrance to the monastery, a tall set of wooden doors fixed into the stone wall. It made Ashe think of a Medieval castle, barricaded to repel invaders. Helen yanked at the cord of an iron bell, its chime bouncing between the walls of the valley as if the noise were a creature gleeful to be let loose. After a few moments the door opened, a slender monk stepping to one side to let them enter. He bowed as they filed past, his pointed hat looming towards their faces. He gave the ground a double tap with the base of the long pole he carried, a fighting stick, Ashe assumed.
  "Thank you," said Walsingham, giving a rather selfconscious bow in return.
  The door opened into a central courtyard. Ashe turned slowly, getting the lay of the land. A pair of monks worked their way around the perimeter, lighting heavy sconces in preparation for the night ahead. There was the thick smell of manure coming from what Ashe took to be the stables, a small, two-level outbuilding to the left of the courtyard. "That was where the body was found?" he asked, pointing.
  "Yes," Helen answered,
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