Murder died on a Tuesday. He was fourteen years old, which was old for a terrier, and he had been slowing for months—the walks grew shorter, the leaps onto the sofa more cautious, the sleeps deeper and longer than they had been in his younger days. Dorothy had noticed it before Ed had, because Dorothy noticed everything about the small creature she had owned since he was a puppy, the dog who had been with her through the war and the bombings and the long years of widowhood that had followed her...