The sweeping branches of the weeping willow trees in the pub garden were only now losing their delicate, lance-shaped leaves. They still provided a pleasant shade from the suddenly fierce October sun. At one time, autumn had been his favourite of all the seasons, Rafferty mused, as he sipped his bitter. The season of mellow fruitfulness, as some dead poet had it; the time of bright Indian summer skies when, as today, the sun, as if guided by some Old Master's hand, burnished the rusts, russets and ambers of the shedding leaves to glowing life. But, he had long ago realised that this appearance of vivid life was counterfeit. Like the photo of the young and long-dead Carstairs and his laughing friend, it served more as a reminder of one's own mortality. Because, once the fruit was harvested,
