‘Ah.’

‘I know it’s a bit of a nerve asking, but would you read a manuscript for me?’

Wexford took a cup of coffee from a passing tray. ‘What for?’

‘Well, in the interests of truth. Mike was going to tell me what he thought.’ Wexford looked at him dubiously. He had the highest respect and the deepest affection for Inspector Burden but he was one of the last people he would have considered as a literary critic. ‘To tell me what he thought,’ the publisher said once again. ‘You see, it’s worrying me. The author has discovered some new facts and they more or less prove Mrs Winchurch’s innocence.’ He hesitated. ‘Have you ever heard of a writer called Kenneth Gandolph?’

Wexford was saved from answering by the pounding of a gavel on the top table and the beginning of the speeches. A great many toasts had been drunk, several dozen telegrams read out, and the bride and groom departed to change their clothes before he had an opportunity to reply to Ireland’s question. And he was glad of the respite, for what he knew of Gandolph, though based on hearsay, was not prepossessing.

‘Doesn’t he write crime novels?’ he said when the enquiry was repeated. ‘And the occasional examination of a real-life crime?’

Nodding, Ireland said, ‘It’s good, this script of his. We want to do it for next spring’s list. It’s an eighty-year-old murder, sure, but people are still fascinated by it. I think this new version could cause quite a sensation.’

‘Florence Winchurch was hanged,’ said Wexford, ‘yet there was always some margin of doubt about her guilt. Where does Gandolph get his fresh facts from?’

‘May I send you a copy of the script? You’ll find all that in the introduction.’

Wexford shrugged, then smiled. ‘I suppose so. You do realize I can’t do more than maybe spot mistakes in forensics? I did say maybe, mind.’ But his interest had already been caught. It made him say, ‘Florence was married at St Peter’s, you know, and she also had her wedding reception here.’

‘And spent part of her honeymoon in Greece.’

‘No doubt the parallels end there,’ said Wexford as Burden and Jenny came back into the room.

Burden was in a grey lounge suit, she in pale blue sprigged muslin. Wexford felt an absurd impulse of tenderness towards him. It was partly caused by Jenny’s hat which she would never wear again, would never have occasion to wear, would remove the minute they got into the car. But Burden was the sort of man who could never be happy with a woman who didn’t have a hat as part of her ‘going-away’ costume. His own clothes were eminently unsuitable for flying to Crete in June. They both looked very happy and embarrassed.

Mrs Ireland seized her daughter in a crushing embrace.

‘It’s not for ever, Mother,’ said Jenny. ‘It’s only for two weeks.’

‘Well, in a way,’ said Burden. He shook hands gravely with his own son, down from university for the weekend, and planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead. Must have been reading novels, Wexford thought, grinning to himself.