Sir Manuel Camargue, one of the greatest flautists of his time, is dead. An old man, ankle-deep in snow, he lost his foothold in the dark, and slipped into the water becoming trapped under a lid of ice. Only a glove remains to point to where he lies, one of its fingers rising up out of the drifts.|
There’s nothing Chief Inspector Wexford likes better than an open-and-shut case. They’re so restful. And yet there are one or two niggling doubts – and the disturbing return of Camargue’s daughter, now a considerable heiress, after an absence of nineteen years. Is Wexford going to listen to that nagging inner voice of his? And if he does, what exactly does he plan to do?