Carruthers shakes his head. "Mr. Henslowe, if you’ll pardon me sayin’, has always been an odd one. Artist. Distracted by a butterfly, he’d be, and no head for the work he’d had to do. Except when he come back from the hospital in ’32 – he was real focused then, on that book he was making. And then he’d wander the grounds with that camera of his.”

"Has he only been in Joy Grove for two years then? Or was he just visiting, in '32."

"He was in the hospital from '24 to '32 and then he left for a bit. Doctors said he was stable, turned out not to be."

"Mmm." She makes a note. "What'd he do that was unstable?"

"Lot of digging, lot of writing. Drew on the walls. Kept going around places with his shovel and a camera."

"Anything dangerous?"

"Not to other people. Banged himself up pretty nicely, though."

"Huh. Seems to me like an artist has a right to draw on his own walls. Know anything about the book he was writing?"

"He kept it very close to his chest. Lotta folk treat servants like we're invisible but Mr. Henslowe kept a close eye on things when I was around, didn't start to treat me like I was furniture."

Serious nodding. "I see. Any idea what became of the book when he went to the hospital again?"

"I been through every inch of his house and the grounds looking after it and I haven't seen hide nor hair of that book since Mr. Henslowe left."

"Huh. Any idea what he was digging for?"

"Suspect he weren't digging for nothing. Thought he was just not right in the head, if you pardon my saying."

"Sure. I find that mad people are usually thinking something when they do things, though, even if it doesn't make sense to anyone else. Was Mrs Henslowe the one who got him sent back to the hospital, then?"

Carruthers nods. "She was frightened for him. Scared he might hurt himself, one of those days. Worried about what would happen to him when she's gone."

"Mhmm. And he hasn't been out to visit since?"

"No, Mrs. Henslowe signs for him and takes him on day trips."

"I see. I suppose when she's gone he'll be stuck in the hospital indefinitely."

"Yes. I would, but." He leaves the sentence unfinished.

"Yeah. What do you suppose you'll do, when she's gone?"

"My boy James works in one of them factories in the city now. Reckon I'd join him."

"Fair enough. I think there was something else. - oh, do you know a Francis Hickering?"

"Never heard of him."

"Huh. Well, that's all right. I'd better go find the others. Thanks for your time, John."

She meets up with the rest of the group as Zoe makes her discovery, and they all go to the graveyard.

At the heart of the property, where the ground slopes down into the watery mud at the swamp’s edge, tombstones jut from the weeds and reeds. Some are modest old things, some are tall stone crosses, one is a weeping angel. An empty vase stands before the one marked “David and Virginia Henslowe.”

It is beginning to get dark.

It is very nearly the new moon, so the dark is going to be very dark.
 
A humid fog clings to the ground here, filling the narrow lanes between the tombstones, weird shapes tangling in the middle distance as trees and hanging moss cast their shadows into the twilight.