“All right. I will. You know quite a lot of people think Shaun Naylor didn’t murder Louise?”

He snorted. “People like Nick Seymour, you mean. Mountebanks, the lot of them.”

“Perhaps. But it seems they may be right. A man’s come forward and confessed.”

“What?”

“The real murderer’s owned up-three years late.”

“Good God.” He pulled up sharply and turned to stare at me. “Surely not.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Who is he?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to name him until the police have investigated his claim.”

“His claim? You mean there’s some doubt about it?”

“Not much. But we’d all like to disbelieve it, wouldn’t we? If we could.”

His frown of astonishment melted slowly into one of utter confusion. “You’re saying Naylor’s innocent? And this… other man… committed the murders?”

“Apparently so.”

“My God.” He plucked thoughtfully at his lower lip, then squinted at me suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think you may be holding back valuable information about Louise’s movements that day. Information the police have no cause to suspect you possess. They don’t know you were in love with her, you see. But I do.” He flinched and took half a pace back, as if I’d made to strike him. “You had an affair with Louise Paxton, didn’t you?”

“I most certainly did not.”

“Come on. You nearly drove into me that day because you were so upset. And your wife more or less admitted-”

“What? What did she admit?”

“That she knew something was going on between you and Louise. But the state of your marriage is none of my concern. I’m only-”

“Damn right it’s none of your concern!”

“Listen,” I said, holding up my hands to placate him. “I’m not here to judge or condemn anybody. I simply want to know whether you met Louise in Kington the day she died.”

His anger seemed to subside. His hostile glare crumpled into an exasperated scowl. “You think she went there to meet me?”

“She’d walked out on her husband. Who else would she have been meeting?”

“She’d left Keith?”

“It seems likely.”

“Oh, bloody hell.” He sighed and started walking again, more slowly than before. “If only you were right,” he muttered. “If only I’d known.”

“Didn’t you?”

He shook his head. “Of course not.”

“But-”

“There was nothing between us. Never had been. She wouldn’t let there be. Sophie’s well aware of that, damn her.”

We came to the market-place, where traders were already erecting their stalls and setting out their wares amidst a cacophony of clattering poles, flapping tarpaulins and good-humoured banter. Marsden trudged gloomily down one side of the square, oblivious to the bustling scene. And I tagged along.

“Since you seem to know so much, you might as well know it all. At least then you’ll get it right. I was in love with Louise. Still am, in a way. She never gave me any encouragement, though. Nothing ever happened. I wanted it to, God knows. I’d have walked out on Sophie without a backward glance if only-” He sighed. “She’d have preferred that, I sometimes think. Louise’s rejection of me was more of a blow to Sophie’s pride than an affair or even a divorce would have been. The knowledge that her best friend had turned her nose up at me-at her husband-and must have realized as a result what a sick joke our marriage was…” A weary shake of the head seemed to sum up more years of discontent and dissatisfaction than he cared to count. “I worshipped Louise. I would have done anything for her. But she didn’t want to know. I was an embarrassment to her. Sophie found that humiliating and unforgivable. Which I suppose it was.”

As one piece of the puzzle fell into place, another fell out. If Howard Marsden was telling the truth-as I felt sure he was-then he’d played no part whatever in Louise’s decision to leave Sir Keith. But somebody must have done. Not Oscar Bantock, as Paul had initially suspected. He seemed more likely to have been her pander than her lover. Nor Naylor, since she’d only met him when she had by chance. Who, then? There was no answer. But hovering at the margin of my thoughts was the “perfect stranger” Sophie had spoken of. I’d never quite convinced myself she’d invented him. And now my willingness to do Bella’s bidding revealed itself in my mind for what it truly was. Not an attempt to prove or disprove Paul’s confession. But a pursuit of the most elusive figure in Louise’s life. Who was straying more and more into mine.

“You know as much about Louise’s movements the day she died as I do, Mr. Timariot. Perhaps more. You met her, after all, I didn’t. I have no information-for you or the police.”

“No. I see that now.”

“I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

We’d reached the other side of the square and were standing at the top of a wide street that led down towards the river. Marsden surveyed the view for a moment, then turned to me and said: “The man who’s confessed. Is there any doubt of his guilt?”

“Not really.”

“Which means Naylor was telling the truth all along?”

“Yes.”

“About Louise? About how they met? And why?”

I didn’t need to answer. The look we exchanged said it all. Each of us wanted to cling to our own memory of Louise. But neither of us was going to be allowed to.

“This will destroy her reputation,” he murmured.

“Yes,” I said, unable to offer him the slightest comfort. “I’m very much afraid it will.”

I was careful to leave Howard Marsden with the impression that I’d be heading back to Petersfield straightaway. But I had no intention of quitting Ludlow without running Sophie to earth first. For reasons I certainly couldn’t explain to her husband.

I’d got their address from the telephone directory at the hotel. Frith’s End, Ashford Carbonell, turned out to be an impressively appointed black-and-white house in a well-to-do village a few miles south of Ludlow. The overall effect was one of prosperity neither flaunted nor hidden, but robustly declared. I arrived just after half past nine, reckoning Sophie would be up but not yet out by then. And so she was, though the pink silk bathrobe, casually sashed over not very much, suggested I could safely have delayed my visit by another hour at least.

She must have been surprised to see me, but only a momentary widening of her eyes revealed the fact. “Robin!” she said with a flashing smile. “Won’t you come in?”

I followed her into a large and elegantly furnished drawing-room, parts of which seemed familiar from her Benefit of the Doubt interview-or else from glossy interior design magazines leafed through over the years in dentists’ waiting-rooms. French windows gave onto a gently sloping lawn, recently mown and sparkling with dew. Beyond, trees turning to varying shades of gold lined a long curving reach of the river. While indoors everything was tastefully immaculate: a soothing mix of gleaming walnut and glittering brass; plump-cushioned sofas and thick-piled rugs; fat-bellied urns and slim-stemmed vases.

I watched Sophie as she crossed the room in front of me, the inviting lines and soft folds of the bathrobe drawing half-forgotten images to the surface of my thoughts. She knew I was watching her, of course. The knowledge pleased her. Her movements were probably designed for an audience even when she was alone. A newspaper, some letters and an empty breakfast cup stood on a low table by an armchair that faced the television, on which two figures mouthed silently to each other in a studio. Sophie must have zeroed the sound when she heard the doorbell. Now, stooping to tap a key on the remote control that lay ready on the arm of the chair, she switched off the picture as well-and turned to face me.

“I don’t like being pestered, Robin. But I don’t like to be neglected, either. I think you might have been in touch before now.”