“Like what?”

“Oh, all right,” he said impatiently. “Bryant knew what Lady Paxton was wearing. I mean every single garment. He described them accurately. Colour, fabric, the lot. Now how could he-unless he really did watch her take them off?”

“I suppose he couldn’t.” But my mind was already pursuing a different answer. Louise’s clothes would have been returned to her family at some point. Sarah would probably have looked after that. She’d have wanted to spare Rowena and her father the task. So, she’d have known exactly what her mother had been wearing.

“Then there was his description of Bantock’s face after he’d killed him,” said Joyce, warming to his theme. “‘Smeared in multi-coloured flakes of paint.’ Well, that’s just how it was. It’s what Jones said-the postman who found him. ‘Like it was covered in hundreds and thousands.’ But it was never mentioned in court.”

“Surely Jones might have talked about it subsequently.”

“Of course. We thought of that. We had Jones in to take a look at Bryant. He’d never set eyes on him before in his life.”

“I see.” And so I did. I saw precisely how it could have been managed. Jones had never met Paul. But he might have met Sarah. And she might have persuaded him to reminisce about the scene at Whistler’s Cot. But Joyce wouldn’t have asked him if she had. The idea would never have crossed his mind.

“Besides, those meetings with Lady Paxton he listed-complete with dates, times and places. There were too many to fake. Far too many. And every single one checked out.”

“Did it?” Sarah had been ideally placed to supply dates, times and places, of course. Even corroborate some of them herself. And she’d have realized they could risk inventing a few incidents that a living person would know to be untrue-so long as that person was sure to be disbelieved. “Not every one, surely. I thought Sir Keith denied having the row with Lady Paxton Paul claims to have overheard in Biarritz.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Joyce said with a cynical smile. He looked round. The door to number thirteen was closed now and a bedraggled figure I took to be his sergeant was sheltering from the rain beneath the first-floor bay. “OK, Mike. Go back to the car. I’ll join you there.” The sergeant nodded and hurried away.

“Where do you think Paul’s gone, Inspector?”

Joyce shrugged. “Christmas shopping, for all I know. He’s free to go wherever he likes. Until Naylor’s been acquitted. The neighbour’s going to ask him to phone me as soon as he gets back, though. Just to put my mind at rest.”

“They said on television Naylor’s appeal wouldn’t come to court until March.”

“That’s right.”

“It’s a long time to wait.”

“For Bryant, you mean?” Joyce glanced over his shoulder at the empty rain-streaked windows of number thirteen. “Oh, he’ll sit it out patiently enough, I reckon.” Then his brow creased into a frown. “That’s not what’s worrying me.”

“What is, then?”

He shook his head. “To be frank, Mr. Timariot, I’m not quite sure. There’s something wrong here. But I can’t for the life of me work out what it is.”

Why had they done it? The question circled giddily in my mind as I ran back to Queen Square, jumped into the car and started for Clifton. Why should they have wanted to do it? It made no sense. Yet clearly, to them, it did. They’d planned this. They’d plotted and prepared it. Every step of the way. But I had no more inkling than Joyce of what they were trying to achieve.

I was already pursuing them, though. Whereas he didn’t even know they’d fled. At Caledonia Place, I let myself in without bothering to try the bell again and went straight up to the second-floor flat.

Then nothing. As I closed the door behind me, only the motionless air of unventilated normality revealed itself. The flat was clean and tidy. But there was clearly nobody at home. I moved slowly from room to room, half-expecting something to happen, some meaning or significance to spring out at me from Sarah’s domestic orderliness. But it didn’t. Her pictures were still on the walls. Her saucepans still hung in line on the hooks above the kitchen worktop. Her coats and dresses still filled the wardrobes. She could have walked in at any moment and it would have seemed no different from all the other times she’d walked in at the end of a working day.

Except she wasn’t going to. The certainty grew as the silence encroached. She wasn’t coming back. Wherever she’d gone-why ever she’d gone there-retreat wasn’t possible. I stood in the lounge, staring at the photograph of her and Rowena with their mother that was still in its place on the mantelpiece between the carriage clock and the china rabbit. Louise’s gaze seemed to be directed at me now, not some indefinable point beyond the camera. It hadn’t changed, of course. But I had. She’d invented the stranger on Hergest Ridge for Sophie’s benefit, because she’d known Sophie would believe a fictitious affair more readily than the truth. What must she have thought, then, when she met me there? What must have gone through her mind?

Suddenly, the telephone rang, making me jump with surprise. As I moved towards it, the answering machine cut in and I heard Sarah’s recorded voice addressing the caller. “This is Bristol 847269. I’m afraid I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’d like to leave a message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Please speak after the tone.”

It was the secretary I’d talked to at Anstey’s. I recognized her at once. “This is Dorothy Gibbons here, Sarah. Mr. Anstey’s most anxious to speak to you. Please contact him the minute you return. You can phone him at home if necessary. Thank you.”

The machine clicked off and silence resumed. Then I pressed the replay button, waited for the tape to wind back and listened as the accumulated messages replayed themselves in sequence. A girl called Fiona, inviting Sarah to a New Year’s Eve party. A bookshop, reporting the arrival of some paperback she’d ordered. Bella, sounding suitably urgent. Bella again, after drawing a blank at Anstey’s. Then, something odd.

“Katy Travers here, Miss Paxton. Hewitson Residential. I’m sorry to bother you, but Mrs. Simpson-I think you’ve met her-keeps badgering me about her mail. She seems to think some of it may have gone astray. Perhaps you could give her a call on 071 624-8488. I’d have phoned you at Braybourne Court, but apparently the line’s been disconnected and I didn’t think you’d want me to give her your Bristol number. I’d be most grateful if you could have a word with her. I’m sure there’s been some simple misunderstanding. Thanks a lot. ’Bye.”

There were a few more messages after that, including a third from Bella, but I paid them little attention. Instead, I rewound the tape and listened to Katy Travers again. What the devil was she talking about? Who was Mrs. Simpson? Where-and what-was Braybourne Court?

I switched off the tape, picked up the telephone and dialled Mrs. Simpson’s number.

“Hello?” She sounded well-bred, elderly and potentially tetchy.

“Mrs. Simpson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m a friend of Sarah Paxton’s. I-”

“Oh, good. I want to speak to Miss Paxton. I’ve been trying to contact her for several days, but she seems distinctly elusive. The agency refused to give me her telephone number, you know. Extraordinary behaviour.”

“Yes. That’s why-”

“I have friends and relatives all over the world. Many of them will have sent me a Christmas card. But to my old address. That’s the point. A substantial quantity must have arrived, but I’ve seen nothing of them. It really is too bad. It was distressing enough to have to leave my lovely flat without this. After that exorbitant rent increase, it’s adding insult to injury to find that my successor can’t even take the trouble to forward my mail. Don’t you agree?”