‘The 1850s. We’re not certain of the actual year.’

‘That gives it distance. Another time, another culture. It no longer shocks us in the way it might have, back then.’

Kepple nodded at this. ‘Your point?’

‘If these were painted today, by one of your artists, they would have much more of an impact. And imagine if these were photographs, not drawings or paintings. Glossy photos, blown up, framed, as these are, and presented in a gallery. Better yet, let’s imagine them taken out of the gallery context, and placed in a home, a domestic setting … perhaps your home, Mr Kepple.’

The gallery owner wiped his face with a hand. His skin was damp. ‘What would that mean to you?’

‘We wouldn’t be having this conversation here. We’d be in a police station, in a room with no windows.’

Kepple tried to regain his calm. ‘You think me a prime suspect? A man with murderous tendencies?’

Hobbes gave a slight nod. It was an ambiguous gesture. Then he turned and walked back downstairs. Kepple followed him into the main gallery space.

‘If anything else comes to mind, let me know. About Nicholas, and anyone who might want him dead.’

‘Of course.’

They were standing near the door. Kepple clearly wanted the inspector to leave. Hobbes held his stance for a while longer. He didn’t speak.

Kepple held the door open for him.

Hobbes looked into the man’s eyes. ‘Why do you think Rosamund stabbed herself with a pair of scissors?’

‘I really have no idea. It shocks me.’

‘I don’t know her that well,’ Hobbes said, ‘but I see her as a woman in pain. I think something happened to her when she was younger, in that house, in Bridlemere. And I’ve seen it happen before, many times: past events coming back to haunt us. And forcing us to act. In ways she might regret.’

It took a moment. ‘You’re not saying she killed Nicholas, are you? Her own brother?’

Hobbes shrugged.

‘She’s innocent, I know she is! My mother would … she would never do such a thing. Don’t you believe me?’

‘Belief irritates me, Mr Kepple. I seek proof. Nothing more.’

Five minutes later the inspector was walking along Regent Street, pushed and pulled by the crowds of tourists and shoppers, the office and store workers hurrying towards the tube stations at Piccadilly Circus in one direction, and Oxford Circus in the other.

Hobbes hardly saw a single person.

He was alone.

The Living-room Theatre

Dark skies over London. No rain. Just the feel of it on the air, waiting. A twilight moment. The room darkened without the two officers fully realizing. Neither bothered to turn on the light. The clock ticked loudly from the hallway. Otherwise silence. Latimer was sitting in an armchair, while Hobbes paced nervously about, his eyes skipping from one item to another on the walls. Portraits, landscapes, playbills. Presenting a new stage play by Mr Leonard Graves, The Silent Guardian. With the much-admired Mary Estelle Graves in her finest performance yet. The face of the actress in profile, stark black-and-white, shadows, smoke drifting in from a hidden cigarette.