"Well, then, perhaps I can"—a too-broad smile—"walk through walls." One hand waves away boredom. "Regno Lönnrot. I grant you it’s a somewhat portentous name, but that is hardly my fault. One might translate it as ‘the kingdom of the Red Maple.’ A very small demesne, alas, restricted entirely to myself. Please do relax, Inspector. The maple plant is harmless—unless one is a horse. Have you found her diaries?" There’s a strange smell, burning and bitter—a black cigarette in the ashtray: actual tobacco. Questionable legality: this is a private house—but not, of course, Lönnrot’s house. Burglary, with aggravated smoking?