“Not much to study. I’ve been told I’m no picture portrait.”

“That’s true. You look as if somebody carved you from a tree with a blunt axe. But beauty isn’t everything when it comes to photographs. If you’ve been in this business long enough, why, beauty’s sort of boring. Like Tolstoy. Beautiful people are all alike, but the ugly . . .”

“Now, that’s an interesting observation, coming from a beautiful woman.”

“Pshaw.” I tap a little ash into the tray. “I thought you intended to move things along?”

“As you like. You don’t mind if I take notes, do you?” He pulls a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Be my guest. I do take shorthand, if you need a break or something.”

“That would be against protocol, I’m afraid. You say you last saw your sister in June of 1940?”

“That’s correct.”

“And since then you haven’t spoken at all? Letters, telegrams?”

“Not a word.”

He set down his pen. “You don’t have any idea of her whereabouts, from June of 1940 until November of 1948? What she was doing? Husband and children and any of that?”

“Of course I do. Our aunt kept me filled in, from time to time.”

“That would be Mrs. Charles Schuyler, wouldn’t it?”

“My stars, you have done your homework, haven’t you? We know her as Aunt Vivian, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So Mrs. Schuyler represents your only source of information on Mrs. Digby’s whereabouts—”

“And our brother, Harry. I believe he dropped in on them, from time to time, at whatever diplomatic post they’d been sent to.”

He casts me a sharp look, as if there’s some hidden meaning in this. “Until November of 1948, of course, when Mrs. Digby and her family vanished from their flat in London.”

“That’s right. I read all about it in the papers.”

“Just the papers?”

“Well, it was a sensational case, wasn’t it? Once the press got their hands on it. No signs of struggle or burglary or anything like that. They just packed their suitcases and left, and nobody’s heard from them since. Isn’t that right, Mr. Fox?”

“Not necessarily. Don’t you think Mrs. Digby might have tried to find some way to send word to those she loves?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t believe I fall inside that category, I’m afraid. All I’ve heard is what’s been reported in the press. One outlandish theory after another.”

“And do you have an opinion on any of them, Miss Macallister?”

“They all seem a little farfetched to me.” I tap some ash into the brass ashtray. “I’m sure you’d know much more about that kind of thing than I do. What do you think? I’m dying to know. Was Digby really a spy for the Soviets? Were they killed, or did they defect?”