She waved him off. “As I said, it doesn’t matter.”

“It’s not you,” Lynley said. “You’re meant to know that. He and Barbara have been at it for years. He has difficulty with women. His divorce…I’m afraid it rather turned him. He’s not come back from it, and he’s not been able to see any fault on his part for what went on.”

“What did go on?”

Lynley entered, shutting the door behind him. “His wife had an affair.”

“Ask me if I’m surprised about that.”

“She had an affair with another woman.”

“I can hardly blame her. That bloke would make Eve choose the snake over Adam.”

“They’re a couple now, and they have custody of John’s two girls.” He observed her steadily as he said this. She shifted her gaze away.

“I can’t feel sorry for him.”

“Who could blame you? But sometimes these things are good to know, and I doubt his file said it.”

“You’re right. It didn’t. Are you thinking we have something in common, John Stewart and I?”

“People at odds often do.” And then in a shift, “Will you come with me, Isabelle? You’ll need to bring your car, as I won’t be coming back this way. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

She frowned. “What’s this about?”

“Not much, actually. But as it’s the end of the day…We can have a meal afterwards, if you’d like. Sometimes talking over a case brings out something not considered before. Arguing about it does the same.”

“Is that what you want to do? Argue?”

“We do have areas of disagreement, don’t we? Will you come with me?”

Isabelle looked round the office. She thought, Whyever not? and she nodded curtly. “Give me a moment to collect my things. I’ll meet you below.”

When he’d left her, she used the time to make a quick trip into the ladies’, where she observed herself in the mirror and saw the day playing out on her face, especially between her eyes where a deep line was making the sort of vertical incision that became permanent. She decided to repair her makeup, which gave her a reason to open her handbag. There she caught sight of those nestling infants. She knew it would take only a moment to toss one of them back. Or all of them. But she firmly closed the bag and went to join her colleague.

Lynley didn’t tell her where they were going. He merely nodded when she joined him and said he’d keep her within sight. That was the limit of their exchange before he set off in his Healey Elliott and gunned its engine as he headed upward, out of the underground car park and into the street. He manoeuvred over to the river. He was as good as his promise: He kept her within view. She was oddly comforted by this. She couldn’t have said why.

Unfamiliar with London as she was, she hadn’t a clue where they were going as they headed southwest along the river. It was only when she saw the golden orb atop a distant obelisk to her right that she realised they’d come to the Royal Hospital, which meant they’d reached Chelsea. The broad lawns of Ranelagh Gardens were desiccated from the weather, she saw, although a few brave souls gathered there anyway: A late-afternoon game of football was in progress.

Just beyond the gardens, Lynley turned right. He coursed along Oakley Street and then went left and left again. They were in an established Chelsea neighbourhood now, and it was characterised by quite tall redbrick homes, wrought-iron railings, and leafy trees. He pointed out a parking space to her, and he pulled ahead to wait for her to fit her car into it. When she joined him in his own car, he drove a bit farther. She saw the river up ahead of them again, along with a pub, which was where he parked. He said he’d be a moment and he went inside. He had an arrangement with the publican, he told her when he returned. When there was no parking available in Cheyne Row, which appeared to be the street’s usual condition, he left his car alongside the pub and his keys with the barman as security.

He said, “It’s just this way,” and he directed her to one of the houses, this one at the junction of Cheyne Row and Lordship Place. She expected this building, like the others, to be a conversion as she couldn’t imagine someone actually owning an entire piece of this pricey London real estate. But then she saw from the doorbell that she was wrong, and when Lynley rang it, a dog began barking almost at once, quieting only when a man’s rough voice said, “Enough! ’ell, you’d think we ’as gettin’ invaded,” as he swung the door open. He saw Lynley even as the dog rushed out, a long-haired dachshund who did not attack but rather leapt round their legs, as if wanting to be noticed.

“Watch out for Peach,” the man said to Isabelle. “She’s wanting food. Fact, she’s always and only wanting food.” And with a nod to Lynley, “Lord Ash’rton,” in something of a mumble, as if he knew Lynley preferred another way of being addressed but was reluctant to be less formal with him. Then he said with a smile, “I was doing a tray of G and T. You as well?” as he held open the door.

“Planning to get addled, are they?” Lynley enquired as he gestured for Isabelle to precede him inside.

The man chuckled. “S’pose miracles can happen,” he replied and he said, “That pleased, Superintendent,” when Lynley introduced Isabelle.

He was called Joseph Cotter, she discovered, and while he didn’t appear to be a servant-despite his making drinks for someone-he also didn’t appear to be the primary resident of the house. That was someone they would apparently “find above,” as Joseph Cotter said. He himself went into a room just to the left at the front of the house. “G and T, then, m’lord?” he called over his shoulder. “Superintendent?”

Lynley said he would gladly have one. Isabelle demurred. “A glass of water would be lovely, though,” she replied.

“Will do,” he said.

The dachshund had been sniffing around their feet as if in the hope they’d brought something edible in on their shoes. Finding nothing, she’d scarpered up the stairs, and Isabelle could hear her paws clicking against the wooden risers as she ascended higher and higher in the house.

They did likewise. She wondered where on earth they were going and what the man Joseph Cotter had meant by above. They passed floor after floor of dark wainscoting below pale cream walls on which hung dozens of black-and-white photos, mostly portraits although some interesting landscapes were also scattered among them. On the final level of the house-Isabelle had lost count of the number of flights of stairs they’d climbed-there were two rooms only and no corridor although even more of the photos hung here, and in this spot they hung straight to the ceiling. The effect was like being in a photographic museum.

Lynley called out, “Deborah? Simon?” to which a woman’s voice replied with, “Tommy? Hullo!” and a man’s voice said, “In here, Tommy. Mind the puddle there, my love,” and her reply, “Let me see to it, Simon. You’ll only make a bigger mess.”

Isabelle preceded Lynley into the room, which took most of its illumination from an enormous skylight that comprised the greater part of the ceiling. Beneath this, a redheaded woman knelt on the floor sopping up liquid. Her gaunt-faced companion stood nearby, a few towels in his hands. These he passed to her as she said, “Two more and I think we’ve got it. Lord, what a mess.”

She could have been referring to the room itself, which looked like the den of a mad scientist, with worktables cluttered with files and documents being blown about by fans that stood in the room’s two windows in a futile attempt to mitigate the heat. There were bookshelves crammed with journals and volumes, racks of tubes and beakers and pipettes, three computers, china boards, video machines, television monitors. Isabelle couldn’t imagine how anyone was able to function in the place.

Neither, apparently, could Lynley, for he looked round, said, “Ah,” and exchanged a look with the man whom he introduced as Simon St. James. The woman was St. James’s wife, Deborah, and Isabelle recognised the name as that of the photographer who’d taken the portrait of Jemima Hastings. She recognised St. James’s name as well. He was a longtime expert witness, an evaluator of forensic data who worked equally for the defence or for the prosecution when a case of homicide came to trial. She could tell from their interaction that Lynley knew Simon and Deborah St. James rather well, and she wondered why he had wanted her to meet them.