Cordelia said:

'It's very kind of you. Do you think we ought to have a wreath?'

'Why not, it'll give it a bit of tone. Leave it to me.'

So there had been a cremation and one wreath. The wreath had been a vulgarly inappropriate cushion of lilies and carnations, the flowers already dying and smelling of decay. The cremation service had been spoken by the priest with carefully controlled speed and with a suggestion of apology in his tone as if to assure his hearers that, although he enjoyed a special dispensation, he didn't expect them to believe the unbelievable. Bernie had passed to his burning to the sound of synthetic music and only just on time, to judge by the impatient rustlings of the cortege already waiting to enter the chapel.

– Afterwards Cordelia was left standing in the bright sunlight, feeling the heat of the gravel through the soles of her shoes. The air was rich and heavy with the scent of flowers. Swept suddenly with desolation and a defensive anger on Bernie's behalf, she sought a scapegoat and found it in a certain Superintendent of the Yard. He had kicked Bernie out of the only job he had ever wanted to do; hadn't troubled to find out what happened to him later; and, most irrational indictment of all, he hadn't even bothered to come to the funeral. Bernie had needed to be a detective as other men needed to paint, write, drink or fornicate. Surely the CID was large enough to accommodate one man's enthusiasm and inefficiency? For the first time Cordelia wept for Bernie; hot tears blurred and multiplied the long line of waiting hearses with their bright coronets so that they seemed to stretch in an infinity of gleaming chrome and trembling flowers. Untying the black chiffon scarf from her head, her only concession to mourning, Cordelia set off to walk to the tube station.

She was thirsty when she got to Oxford Circus and decided to have tea in the restaurant at Dickins and Jones. This was unusual and an extravagance but it had been an unusual and extravagant day. She lingered long enough to get full value for her bill and it was after a quarter past four when she returned to the office.

She had a visitor. There was a woman waiting, shoulders against the door – a woman who looked cool and incongruous against the dirty paintwork and the greasy walls. Cordelia caught her breath in surprise, her upward rush checked. Her light shoes had made no sound on the stairway and for a few seconds she saw her visitor unobserved. She gained an impression, immediate and vivid, of competence and authority and an intimidating lightness of dress. The woman was wearing a grey suit with a small stand-away collar which showed a narrow band of white cotton at the throat. Her black patent shoes were obviously expensive; a large black bag with patch pockets was slung from her left shoulder. She was tall and her hair, prematurely white, was cut short and moulded to her head like a cap. Her face was pale and long. She was reading The Times, the paper folded so that she could hold it in her right hand. After a couple of seconds, she became aware of Cordelia and their eyes met. The woman looked at her wrist watch.

'If you are Cordelia Gray, then you're eighteen minutes late. This notice says that you would return at four o'clock.'

'I know, I'm sorry.' Cordelia hurried up the last few steps and fitted the Yale key into the lock. She opened the door.

'Won't you come in?'

The woman preceded her into the outer office and turned to face her without giving the room even a glance.

'I was hoping to see Mr Pryde. Will he be long?'

'I'm sorry; I've just come back from his cremation. I mean, Bernie's dead.'

'Obviously. Our information was that he was alive ten days ago. He must have died with remarkable speed and discretion.'

'Not with discretion. Bernie killed himself.'

'How extraordinary!' The visitor seemed to be struck by its extraordinariness. She pressed her hands together and for a few seconds walked restlessly about the room in a curious pantomime of distress.

'How extraordinary!' she said again. She gave a little snort of laughter. Cordelia didn't speak, but the two women regarded each other gravely. Then the visitor said:

'Well, I seem to have had a wasted journey.'

Cordelia breathed an almost inaudible 'Oh no!' and resisted an absurd impulse to fling her body against the door.

'Please don't go before talking to me. I was Mr Pryde's partner and I own the business now. I'm sure I could help. Won't you please sit down?'

The visitor took no notice of the offered chair.

'No one can help, no one in the world. However that is beside the point. There is something which my employer particularly wants to know – some information he requires – and he had decided that Mr Pryde was the person to get it for him. I don't know if he would consider you an effective substitute. Is there a private telephone here?'

'In here, please.'

The woman walked into the inner office, again with no sign that its shabbiness had made any impression on her. She turned to Cordelia.

'I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Elizabeth Learning and my employer is Sir Ronald Callender.' 'The conservationist?'

'I shouldn't let him hear you call him that. He prefers to be called a microbiologist, which is what he is. Please excuse me.'

She shut the door firmly. Cordelia, feeling suddenly weak, sat down at the typewriter. The keys, oddly familiar symbols encircled in black medallions, shifted their pattern before her tired eyes, then at a blink clicked back to normality. She grasped the sides of the machine, cold and clammy to the touch, and talked herself back to calmness. Her heart was thudding.

'I must be calm, must show her that I am tough. This silliness is only the strain of Bernie's funeral and too much standing in the hot sun.'

But hope was traumatic; she was angry with herself for caring so much.

The telephone call took only a couple of minutes. The door of the inner office opened; Miss Learning was drawing on her gloves.

'Sir Ronald has asked to see you. Can you come now?' Come where, thought Cordelia, but she didn't ask. 'Yes, shall I need my gear?'

The gear was Bernie's carefully designed and fitted-out scene-of-crime case with its tweezers, scissors, fingerprinting equipment, jars to collect specimens; Cordelia had never yet had occasion to use it.

'It depends upon what you mean by your gear, but I shouldn't think so. Sir Ronald wants to see you before deciding whether to offer you the job. It means a train journey to Cambridge but you should get back tonight. Is there anyone you ought to tell?' 'No; there's only me.'

'Perhaps I ought to identify myself.' She opened her handbag. 'Here is an addressed envelope. I'm not a white slaver in case they exist and in case you're frightened.'

'I'm frightened of quite a number of things but not of white slavers and if I were, an addressed envelope would hardly reassure me. I'd insist on telephoning Sir Ronald Callender to check.'

'Perhaps you would like to do so?' suggested Miss Learning without rancour.

'No.'

'Then shall we go?' Miss Learning led the way to the door. As they went out to the landing and Cordelia turned to lock the office behind her, her visitor indicated the notepad and pencil hanging together from a nail on the wall.

'Hadn't you better change the notice?'

Cordelia tore off her previous message and after a moment's thought wrote:

I am called away to an urgent case. Any messages pushed through the door will receive my immediate and personal attention on return.

'That,' pronounced Miss Learning, 'should reassure your clients.' Cordelia wondered if the remark was sarcastic; it was impossible to tell from the detached tone. But she didn't feel that Miss Learning was laughing at her and was surprised at her own lack of resentment at the way in which her visitor had taken charge of events. Meekly, she followed Miss Learning down the stairs and into Kingly Street.