"It's kind of you to take in the cat."

"It's just decent," rejoined Mrs. Du Ray. She stroked Tommy, who had made himself at home on the dining chair beside her and was industriously washing a paw. "You'd have done the same."

"Did you know Dawn well?"

"Perhaps not as well as I should." At Gemma's questioning look, Mrs. Du Ray went on more slowly. "Beautiful, young, wealthy… it didn't occur to me that the girl might need friends. But now that I think about it, she spent a good deal of time in that house alone."

"How could you tell? You can't see their drive from your house, can you, because of the hedge?" As Mrs. Du Ray began to bristle, Gemma added hurriedly, "I don't mean to imply that you were prying. I'm just wondering what you would notice in the normal course of your day."

Mrs. Du Ray went back to petting the cat, relaxing again. "You're right. You can't see the drive from the downstairs windows. But I can see it when I'm working in the front garden, and I can see it from the bedroom windows upstairs. And I did notice, just the way you do, without really thinking much about it."

"You didn't happen to be upstairs on Friday, a few minutes after six?" But she saw instantly from the woman's face that she was going to be disappointed.

"No, dear, I'm sorry. I don't usually go upstairs that time of day. I was here in the kitchen, preparing my supper. A boiled egg and toast, I remember, as I'd been out to lunch with a friend."

"And you didn't hear anything?"

"Not a sound. Until the sirens, of course, and then I went out to see what had happened."

"Did you ever hear them arguing, Karl and Dawn?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. They seemed the perfect couple, always off to parties and dinners, and she was always dressed to the nines. But surely you don't think that Karl Arrowood had anything to do with Dawn's death? That's just not possible!"

"I know sometimes it's difficult to accept, but that is often-"

"No, no, that's not what I meant. I mean I don't believe Karl is physically capable of such a crime. I know how she died, you see. It's been whispered round the neighborhood."

"I don't understand."

"Karl is terrified at the sight of blood. He can't help it, I'm sure. My husband was the same way, from his childhood."

"How do you know?"

"I cut myself badly in the garden one day- a shard of broken glass had somehow worked its way into the front border- just as Karl and Dawn came home. I must have cried out, because Dawn came over to ask if I was all right, and Karl followed her. I thought the man was going to faint when he saw the blood running down my arm. Went white as a sheet and Dawn had to hold on to him. She took him inside, then ran me to the casualty ward at the hospital. She stayed with me, too, and brought me home again when they'd bandaged me up."

"That was kind of her. Did she confide in you at all? One tends to, in that sort of situation."

"No. Nor did she ever. You'd have this lovely conversation, and then later you'd realize you hadn't learned anything about her."

"That makes her an ideal candidate for sainthood, doesn't it?" reflected Gemma softly.

"You mean it allows people to make her into anything they want? I suppose I may have done that myself. But no. There was something genuine there, I'm sure of it. And it's a great loss to everyone who knew her." For the first time, Mrs. Du Ray showed a hint of tears.

"Karl Arrowood, faint at the sight of blood? You're joking." Kincaid glanced at Gemma, then focused his attention once more on the Kensington traffic. He'd dropped Cullen at the Yard before taking the motor pool Rover to pick Gemma up at Notting Hill.

"She was positive," answered Gemma. "And it's not the sort of thing you'd mistake."

"But an elderly lady-"

"Not elderly," she corrected. "Older. And sharp as a tack. And although Arrowood does seem an unlikely candidate, I've seen stranger things."

"If it's true, his phobia didn't prevent him from lifting the body of his dead wife."

"Shock might account for that. What I wonder is if he could have brought himself to cut her throat, and so decisively. There were no hesitation marks."

"Maybe he paid someone else to do it," Kincaid suggested.

"In that case, knowing what he would find, would he have touched her?"

"Has this turned you into an Arrowood apologist? I thought you were dead set on him as Dawn's killer."

"No," Gemma answered, a trifle crossly. "I mean no, I'm not ruling him out. I'm just playing devil's advocate."

"Well, let's see what the former Mrs. Arrowood has to say about him." They had reached Lower Sloane Street, a bastion of elegant and expensive red brick town houses, just below Sloane Square. Kincaid whistled under his breath. "He certainly set her up in style."

Gemma had rung ahead, suspecting that it might be difficult to pin down Karl's former wife without an appointment. Sylvia Arrowood must have been watching out for them because she opened the door before they rang the bell. She was tawny, slender, and extremely well preserved for a woman he guessed to be in her fifties. It intrigued Kincaid that she was the same physical type as Dawn Arrowood- had Karl been guilty of trading in the old model for the new?

"You must be the police," she said. "Can we do this as speedily as possible? I've an appointment." Her tone clearly said that her time was important and theirs was not.

Kincaid put on his most bland expression to hide his irritation. When he asked if they could sit down, she did not conceal hers. "We'll try to inconvenience you as little as possible, Mrs. Arrowood," he began as he took quick stock of the room.

It was filled with what he judged to be expensive antiques and objets d'art, but this was a room to be looked at, not lived in. There was something oddly off balance about it, and after a moment he realized what it was. The room was just slightly overcrowded, and he sensed this was due not to a love of the objects acquired, but to greed. Why have one priceless Georgian table, or Sèvres vase, when you could have two?

"…lovely flat," Gemma was saying.

Mrs. Arrowood perched on the edge of one of her gilded armchairs, watching them, her only acknowledgment a nod.

"You do realize why we're here?" Kincaid spoke a bit more sharply than he'd intended. "Your ex-husband's wife has been murdered."

"And why do you think that should be of particular concern to me? I never met the woman. I haven't seen Karl in years."

"How long have you been divorced?" asked Gemma with just a hint of sympathy in her voice.

"Thirteen years. Karl left me when Richard was eleven, and Sean, nine. Have you any idea what it's like to bring up boys that age on your own?"

"I can imagine," Gemma replied. "Mrs. Arrowood, we've been told that your husband had a vasectomy during his marriage to you. Is that true?"

Sylvia Arrowood stared at her. "Why on earth do you want to know that?"

"It's relevant to the case. I'm afraid I can't give out any details."

Shrugging, Sylvia said, "Well, I can't see any harm in telling you. I wanted another child after Sean, and the bastard went out, without discussing it with me, and got himself fixed. 'Just to make sure,' he said, 'that there won't be any accidents.' I never forgave him for that."

"No, I can see that." Gemma glanced at her notebook. "Mrs. Arrowood. Was your husband upset by the sight of blood?"

"How do you know about that? A shaving nick would make Karl swoon, as giddy as a girl." Sylvia smiled, but Kincaid didn't get the impression that it was in fond remembrance. "You're not thinking the bastard murdered his little wife, are you? That's absurd!"

"Why?"

"Not just because he couldn't bear anything to do with blood. Karl's much too cruel for something so clean and quick. He likes to torture his victims slowly. And why would he do such a thing… unless she was having an affair?" Sylvia seemed to read confirmation in their expressions. "I see. Well, I can tell you, he'd have made her pay, all right, if he found out. But he'd have drawn it out- it's much more likely he'd have turned her out in the street with nothing, sent her back to whatever grotty suburb she came from. By the time he married her he didn't need money," she added bitterly. "He could afford to go slumming."