“We met in the army,” said Mrs. Bellrush. “He was a dashing captain and so was I, it was very romantic. In those days once you were married you were out, so I moved into civvie street.” And ironically found herself in the same line of work as she had been in the army. “Only much better paid of course,” she said.

I asked what kind of work but Mrs. Bellrush said she couldn’t tell me. “All very hush-hush I’m afraid,” she said. “Official Secrets Act and all that jazz.” She looked at me over the rim of her teacup. “Now, what is it you want to know about my husband’s death?”

If ever a man had enjoyed his retirement it had been Henry Bellrush, what with the garden, the grandchildren, the holidays abroad, and, of course, his music. He and some friends used to play at the local pub—strictly for their own enjoyment.

“But he joined the Musicians Union,” I said.

“That was Henry,” said Mrs. Bellrush. “He came up from the ranks—never lost that sense of solidarity with the common man.”

“You didn’t notice anything unusual in his behavior?” It was a standard question.

“Such as what?” she asked, just a tad too defensively.

“Staying out late, unexplained absences, forgetfulness,” I said, all of which got nothing. “Changes in spending habits, unusual receipts, credit card bills.” That got a reaction.

Her eyes met mine and then she looked away.

“He’d been making regular purchases from a shop in Soho,” she said. “He didn’t try to hide it from me and it was all there on his credit card statement. After he died I found some receipts still in his wallet.”

I asked where they were from.

“A Glimpse of Stocking,” she said.

“The lingerie shop?”

“You know it?”

“I’ve walked past it,” I said. Actually I’d once spent about ten minutes looking in the window, but to be fair I was on patrol, at three in the morning, and I was very bored. “Are you sure he wasn’t buying a present for you?”

“I’m sure I never received anything quite as daring as a scarlet Alloetta corset in raw silk with matching satin knickers,” she said. “Not that I would have been averse. Shocked, perhaps, but not averse.”

People don’t like to speak ill of the dead even when they’re monsters, let alone when they’re loved ones. People like to forget any bad things that someone did and why should they remember? It’s not like they’re going to do it again. So I kept the next question as emotionally neutral as I could.

“Do you think he might have been having an affair?”

She stood, walked over to an antique folding desk, and retrieved an envelope.

“Given the nature of the purchases,” she said, handing me the envelope, “I can’t think of an alternative explanation—can you?”