'Pardon?'

'Jean-Jacques Henner. He died a few years ago and I suppose his fame has faded, but he was one of the finest portraitists of his generation. That's me in 1890 before I grew old and wrinkled.'

'You are hardly that,' I muttered. I really didn't feel like paying compliments. In fact I never did, and I had had little practice.

'And this is John.' She pointed to the smaller portrait, tucked away in a corner of the room. 'He hated having his portrait taken. He only consented because I demanded it as a birthday present. He grumbled incessantly, and would only have this little thing done. It's so tiny you can barely see him.'

I looked. So that was Lord Ravenscliff. I peered intently, but it gave me no clues. He seemed nothing remarkable; there was no look of bestriding arrogance or pride; no hint of cruelty or kindness. It was just a face, that of a perfectly prosperous gentleman, looking calmly out with only a hint of weariness about having to waste his time to placate a demanding wife. He looked almost agreeable.

'May I say I'm surprised he found the time to read so much?' I said as I gestured at the shelves. 'I thought these men of business worked all the time.'

'He liked reading,' she said with a smile at my condescension. 'But this is my room. John's is upstairs. He preferred less well-upholstered surroundings. He did not like to get too comfortable when he was working.'

'Ah.'

'That's right. I can read.'

'I didn't mean—'

'Yes you did,' she said brightly.

I blushed.

'It doesn't matter. In this country it is quite usual for women of my position to regard reading a book as somehow inelegant. However, you must remember that I used to live in France, where it is not considered wholly inappropriate. But I have loved reading all my life. We must talk more about this some time. I always think it important to know what a man reads. Tell me, what do you think of this?'

She picked up the blue bowl and handed it to me casually. What was I to say? It was a blue bowl. With patterns on. Blue ones. I shrugged. She put it back.

'Well?' I said, I hope a little coldly. 'You wished to take your revenge by revealing my ignorance and you have succeeded. You might as well enlighten me.'

'Oh, it is nothing of importance,' she replied. 'And you are right. That was offensive. I apologise. Shall we begin again?'

'Very well.'

'So. Tell me, have you made any progress since we last met?'

'A little. I have talked to a few people and done some background reading. But I have to say that I have questions which must be answered before I proceed any further.' I did not like this. The meeting had not got off to a good start.

'Dear me,' she said with a smile. 'That does sound serious.'

'It is.'

'Well? Go on,' she prompted as I lapsed into silence. I had never done anything like this before, and I wasn't quite sure how I should phrase the questions. Thinking of what to say, and actually saying it now she was standing in front of me, were very different.

'Mr Braddock? Are you going to say something, or just stare at me all afternoon?'

'It's difficult to know where to begin . . .'

'At the beginning?'

'Don't make fun of me. What I need to know is whether you are being honest with me. All the evidence suggests you are not.'

'And what,' she said, definitely cooler now, 'have I said or done to make you think such a thing?'

'Were I a reporter once more, I would leap to one obvious conclusion,' I said, feeling better now that I had got under way. 'Your husband dies and you instantly go to his desk, remove whatever evidence there is about the identity of this child, and hide or destroy it. Then you call me in to look for something you know cannot be found, so that you can appear to be a dutiful and obedient widow, carrying out her husband's wishes. In due course, all the money which should have gone to this child comes to you.'

She looked evenly at me. 'In that case you are a very bad reporter. Someone with a flair for a story would also have considered the possibility that I discovered, one way or another, something about the provision in his will. That I was so overcome with jealousy that I not only did as you say, I also pushed my husband out of the window.'

Was she angry, or distressed? She held her jaw so tightly that I knew it was one or the other, but her self-control was so great it defeated any attempt to penetrate further.

'I have considered that possibility,' I replied.

'I see. So are you here to tell me you do not wish to continue in my employ? Or are you trying to discover a way of keeping the money, even though it comes from a murderess?'

She was quite calm as she spoke, which convinced me that she was furious with me; so furious that I doubted whether it was going to be my choice.

'I am trying to discover what happened. Which is the job you gave me. Part of it, anyway. I must say that I do not really think you are a murderess. But I need to get circumstances clear in my mind. You ask me to find this child, and the task would be easily accomplished if the evidence was where your husband said it was. Someone moved it. It might help considerably if I knew who.'

'So? Ask.' She had not forgiven me, nor entirely resumed her pose of calm, but I could see my remarks had mollified her a little.

'Did you move it?'

'No. Do you believe me?'

'Who did move it?'

'I don't know.'

'Who could have moved it?'

'I don't know that either. Or rather, I could give you a list of people who have been in the house long enough to occupy you for months. I imagine it would have been in the large drawer which contains a strongbox. It would have been locked. Only my husband had a key.'

'Forgive me for asking, but could I see this desk?'

'By all means.' She stood up and walked to the door. She was not the sort of woman whose clothes needed smoothing down, however long she had been sitting; they simply fell into place. That was expensive couture, I guessed. Or maybe she was simply one of those people who was like that. My own clothes looked rumpled even when they were fresh back from the laundry.

'Was your husband disturbed or preoccupied at all in his last few weeks or months?' I asked as we walked up the stairs. I walked beside her out of modesty, as the sight of her from behind was too enticing to be polite.

'Perhaps. He had been different, more distant for some time before his death. And in the last few days he was very preoccupied.'

'In what way?'

'I could see something in his eyes. Worry. I think it was a premonition.'

'About his death?'

'Yes. The human mind is a strange and complex thing, Mr Braddock. Sometimes it can see the future without realising it.'

'Did you ask what concerned him?' I said, steering the conversation away from this topic as fast as was seemly.

'Of course. But he simply said there was nothing which I should worry about. That all would be well. I never doubted it until he reassured me.'

'But you have no idea . . .'

'None. I assume it was something to do with his business affairs, because I can discover no other possible explanation. Although I saw less of him than usual.'

'Why was that?'

'He was working. He would be out late. Ordinarily, he would return in the early evening, and he rarely left the house again. He preferred to eat at home, then we would read together. Sometimes he would have work to attend to, but only in his office. Sometimes he would read his papers sitting by the fire, with me next to him. In the last few weeks he would go out again, sometimes coming back late at night. But he never told me why.'

'Do you know a man called Cort? Henry Cort?'

She gave no reaction, either of pleasure or anything else. 'I have known Mr Cort for more than twenty years,' she replied evenly. 'John also knew him for a long time.'