Hobbes walked back to the start of the series, and made a study of the first image, where the woman was seen in the very act of dying. He didn’t speak.

‘Most people concentrate on the later images,’ Kepple said.

‘Not me.’

‘What are you looking for?’

‘I’m wondering about the cause of death.’

‘What?’

‘There are no visible wounds. You can see that clearly in the second and third image, where the flesh is exposed. There are no puncture marks.’

Kepple laughed politely. ‘I always thought she’d died of a sickness. Well, to be honest, I’ve never actually thought about it before.’

‘She’s only a subject matter to you. To me, she’s a potential victim.’

‘Maybe she killed herself – some kind of drug?’

‘Yes, it’s possible. But, as with your grandfather, the police would have been called in. Just to make sure.’ Now Hobbes examined the second and third images more closely. ‘Hmm. Interesting.’ His face was almost touching the surface.

‘What is it?’

‘Her lips are coloured in this second picture. Perhaps evidence of vomiting.’

‘Let me see.’

Kepple came forward again and stood beside the detective. ‘I’ve never noticed before. It’s very subtle.’

Hobbes nodded. ‘I’m thinking some kind of opiate. Something that put her to sleep, or that caused a slow paralysis. Something derived from a plant, I imagine, given the historical period. Hemlock, for instance. The poison that took the life of Socrates.’

‘I’m not sure if it grows in Japan.’

‘Do you see here?’ Hobbes pointed to the first image. ‘Her limbs look stiff, crooked to the body.’

‘Evidence of a struggle, you think?’

‘Only with herself, those final moments as the soul surrenders.’ Then he frowned. ‘I wish I could send off a sample of her blood for testing. A tox report would settle it.’

‘Are you toying with me?’

Hobbes looked serious. ‘Whenever I see a dead body, my first questions are always the same. How did they die? Are there suspicious circumstances? And …’ he turned to David Kepple ‘… if she was murdered, who was the perpetrator?’

‘Surely, you can’t work that out just from a painting?’

‘My first instincts would say … the artist. Who else?’

Kepple was dumbfounded.

‘You said she was a courtesan?’ Hobbes asked.

‘That’s right. According to the title.’

‘So, a high-class prostitute? Is that correct, for the period?’

‘Yes. Very popular in the age of the Japanese Empire. They were trained in etiquette, arts and crafts, dancing, singing.’

‘So, then, I think the artist paid for her favours. And killed her, just so he could portray her body, as it decomposed, over weeks, months, or longer.’

‘The artist as murderer? That’s an interesting concept, Inspector.’

‘Of course, this is all supposition.’ Hobbes gave a slight smile.

The two men had stepped back so they could look at the images in a row. Kepple said, ‘I suppose you think me very morbid, collecting such things?’

Hobbes didn’t answer straight away. He considered the nine pictures one last time, each in turn. ‘These were painted in, what was it? Eighteen …?’