I wasn’t familiar with all parts of London but I was fairly sure that Deptford was not one of the more fashionable parts. Somewhere south of the river Thames, I thought. And I wondered who Bobo would be writing to there. The last letter she had written, presumably, unless the police had removed more recent sheets of blotting paper. Mary Boyle sounded like an Irish name to me and it occurred to me that this might be her former maid, of whom she had seemed to be fond. I wondered if she had dismissed her when she discovered she was pregnant, not wanting anyone close to her at such a time. Or maybe the Irish maid had left her when she threatened to get an abortion . . . and Bobo had written to her to tell her she had changed her mind and was going to have the child. This was all complete supposition. It could equally have been her dressmaker to whom she was sending a check. But it was all worth thinking about.

I copied down the address with a sheet of Bobo’s own writing paper. Then there didn’t seem anything more to be done. I knew I should get out of Bobo’s flat while the going was good. As I was crossing the floor, stepping over Bobo’s various piles of discarded clothing, I somehow put my hand through the strap of a brassiere that she had left hanging from her bedpost. I should I have realized that I had been accident free for longer than usual and that disaster was looming. I was jerked off balance, tripped over a dress on the floor and found myself careening across the room. The wall came rushing up to meet me, with one of Bobo’s large and rather tasteless paintings directly in my path. The last thing I wanted was to put my hand through the canvas, so I grabbed at the frame. The painting fell. I tried to hold on to it, but I was still off balance and it was heavy. It slipped through my fingers and landed on the floor with an almighty thud.