I pulled my Bambi from under the pillow, then the flashlight from the bedside table, and padded softly to the living room, which was also empty. I checked the bathroom then anywhere narrow where she might have concealed herself, such as behind the wardrobe or under the kitchen units, but without any success. I went to the door, which was still locked, and for a brief moment was confused, until I noticed there was a slender gap under the door, and I figured she’d probably got out that way.

I opened the door to a corridor still illuminated by the flickering fair dreaming candles, but this too was empty, so I trod noiselessly to the stairway that spiralled up the heat-well in the centre of the building, then stopped as I heard the soft tread of shoes against the stone. I tried to remember if Clytemnestra had been wearing sandals but could not, so waited until the footsteps were opposite my door, and then stepped out, flashlight in hand.

It was Charles, as Birgitta had painted him. Completely naked but with no features. Oddly, he was carrying a mug of hot chocolate. He jumped, and spilt some on the steps.

‘Why are you out of your painting?’ I asked.

‘Out of my what?’ asked Charles, which was impossible because he had no mouth. But then I realised it wasn’t Charles at all but Porter Lloyd and with all the features traditionally associated with a face. He wasn’t naked, either. I lowered the Bambi.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I thought you were a thin layer of oil paint.’

‘A thin layer of what? Actually, it doesn’t matter. Can I help you?’

‘I was looking for Clytemnestra. Sort of queenly, tall, topless, fine wintercoat – oh, and carrying a bloody dagger.’

Lloyd smiled.

‘No, I haven’t seen her about.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I think I would have remembered that.’

‘She might be difficult to see,’ I persisted, ‘because if you viewed her edge on, she’d only be the thickness of a sheet of paper and wouldn’t be that obvious.’

‘I see,’ said Lloyd, with a look of understanding – and about time too, to be honest. ‘Now don’t take this the wrong way,’ he said, ‘but you may have a touch of narcosis.’

This was ridiculous, and I told him so.

‘Hear me out,’ he said. ‘Historical topless figures don’t peel themselves out of paintings, and you wandering naked about the Siddons in the small hours doesn’t seem very sensible, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’m not naked,’ I said, shivering.

‘If you’re not naked,’ he said slowly, ‘then how is it that I can see your doo-dads and your hoo-hah?’

‘You can’t.’

‘They’re as clear as the nose on my face.’

‘That’s a terrible use of an idiom.’

‘Agreed – but take a look for yourself.’