“On a ledge, and roped, obviously, in case the weather changed.”

“Christmas night?” Lindsay said in a faint voice. “Were you alone, Rowland?”

“Yes. Which probably wasn’t wise, on Skye in winter. I usually climb with friends. But at Christmas—you know. Most people want to be with their families. And besides, I like to climb alone.”

Lindsay said nothing. She could feel the pace of her mind accelerating, going into overdrive. She tried to engage the brakes of good sense, and they failed.

Rowland handed her the whiskey, and passed her the saucer of peanuts. Lindsay could tell he was proud of finding these, which he offered with touching courtesy. Looking at the peanuts—there were ten of them—she knew she was one inch away from tears.

Afterward, she always knew it was at this precise second that she fell in love with Rowland McGuire. But she could never decide what provoked that debacle. Was it the thought of him alone on a mountain on Christmas Day, or was it because the damn peanuts were so stale?

Rowland found two upright chairs, which he placed side by side at the table. He swept the books to the floor, and Lindsay placed on the table the green file he had given her, and the article she had brought from her home. They both sat down, and Lindsay tossed back her whiskey too fast.

“Now,” she began, intensely aware of Rowland’s proximity, “I’m going to help you, Rowland, just as I promised, despite the fact that you neither apologized nor groveled.”

“I forgot. I promise I will.”

“So pay attention. You’re about to enter a world you don’t understand.”

“I’m paying attention,” said Rowland with suspicious meekness. “I’m hanging on every word.”

“Right. We mentioned all the mysteries about Lazare and Maria Cazarès—you remember? Where they came from, how he first made his fortune, whether they are lovers, the nature of their relationship now, and so on. What would you say was the central mystery, the single most important one?”

“Where each of them came from. If that could be answered, some of the other questions might be answered as well.”

“I agree. Now I’m going to test you—you say you’ve read this file of yours. What’s the authorized version of their origins?”

“The PR version? It’s quite a good tale. Maria Cazarès was born in a tiny village in Spain and orphaned when she was still a small child. She then went to live with some relative, an aunt or possibly a cousin, also Spanish by origin but then living in France. This aunt—whom no one ever met or interviewed, incidentally, was a very skilled embroideress, who had worked for Balenciaga for many, many years. This elderly, unmarried woman took Maria in—and taught her to sew. From an early age Maria proved very talented. After the aunt retired from Balenciaga’s workshops, she found it hard to live on her pension, and so she began a small private dressmaking business, with Maria as her assistant. The aunt then conveniently died, and Maria continued this work on her own. Slowly she began to make a name for herself among the stylish women of Paris, and plucky little thing that she was, she carried on sewing in her freezing atelier until she had enough money to open a small shop. One day, who should pass that shop, and be at once mesmerized by the clothes in its windows, but a rich young man, origins unknown, called Jean Lazare. Lazare, instantly recognizing Maria’s genius, befriended her. He invested in her business, and guided her from then on. In 1976, after remarkably few setbacks, he launched her—Cazarès gave her first couture show.”