She ushered Lindsay into a lounge that looked as if no one had ever relaxed in it. Even the copies of the Scots Magazine and Woman’s Weekly on the rack had their corners aligned. Lindsay sat on the edge of an armchair opposite Alison’s mother. “So, Miss Gordon, you and my daughter had planned to write a book together.”

“That’s right. I thought that if Alison’s notes were available, I might be able to complete the project as a sort of memorial to her.”

Mrs. Maxwell compressed her lips. “I see,” she said eventually. “Judging by the kind of memorial most of her colleagues gave her in the columns of the papers, I’m not at all sure that I want anything more raked over.”

“I had nothing to do with that, Mrs. Maxwell,” Lindsay remarked apologetically. “I was very fond of Alison. I have no intention of besmirching your memories of her.”

“It’s too late for that, Miss Gordon. My memories of my daughter have already been damaged beyond repair by the scurrilous lies of your colleagues.”

“I’m sorry about that. But what I had in mind was a genuine tribute to her journalistic skills. People should be able to remember her by what she was best at. I’m not interested in rehashing her private life. I’d hoped you’d be willing to help me.”

Mrs. Maxwell got to her feet. “My daughter is dead, Miss Gordon. Nothing can bring her back to me. But if her papers can be of any use to you, I suppose there is no harm in letting you go through them. But I insist that I have power of veto over anything you write using my daughter’s work.”

Lindsay nodded vigorously. “That’s no problem, Mrs. Maxwell. I’ll happily let you have it in writing if that would make you happier.”

“It would,” Mrs. Maxwell said. “Have you pen and paper?”

Lindsay fished out her notebook and a pen and dashed off a note promising to give Mrs. Maxwell complete control over the final product of her daughter’s notes for the nonexistent book.

She handed it to Mrs. Maxwell, who scrutinized it carefully, then said, “If you’ll come with me, everything is in Alison’s room.”

Lindsay followed her down the hall and into a pristine bedroom, a shrine to the teenage years of Alison Maxwell. It made Lindsay shiver inside as she surveyed the neat single bed with its hand-crocheted bedspread, the matching white wardrobe, chest of drawers, and dressing table, and the framed photographs of Alison in the sixth form, Alison in Girl Guide uniform, and Alison in cap and gown clutching her degree scroll from St. Andrew’s University. Mrs. Maxwell opened the wardrobe and pointed to two large cardboard boxes.

“It’s all in there,” she announced. “I haven’t had the heart to go through it.”