She hesitated, but there hardly seemed any point in holding back. “Philip Beauchamp. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Ah. Won’t Sasha be pleased.”

“What have you got to say to me, Mr. Burgess? Some new escapade I haven’t heard about?”

“No, I believe I’ve sworn off your husband, for the time being. He gets me into the most awful trouble.”

“I’d say it’s the other way around.” Iris stopped to cross Oxford Street, taking care to look right instead of left. “It’s about Nedda Fischer, isn’t it? Somebody killed her.”

“Nedda Fischer? Yes, terribly sad business. Awful show. On the streets of London, no less. One simply isn’t safe.”

“Oh, don’t play games with me, Mr. Burgess. I don’t have the time or the patience. I’m an American, remember? We like to play straight. Lay our cards on the table. I know what Sasha was up to, and I know what Nedda Fischer was to him, and I imagine you know, too.”

“Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, of course not. You know nothing about nothing. You just happened by Grosvenor Square at the exact moment I wandered out of the US embassy.”

“Careful!” Burgess stuck out his hand just in time to prevent her stepping off the curb in front of a taxi. Iris took a deep breath while the taxi passed. They crossed the street and Burgess took her arm. “Let’s step into Selfridges for a moment, shall we?”

“I said ten minutes—”

Already he was steering her through the revolving doors and into the department store, around the counters with their sparse selections of cosmetics and scarves and haberdashery—clothing still rationed—glancing every so often in a mirror. Iris protested at an escalator, but she couldn’t make a fuss, could she? They swept off the top of the escalator and plunged into Gentlemen’s Furnishings. Iris thought they could hardly have been more conspicuous.

“What I think,” Burgess said softly, examining a silk necktie, “is that poor old Digby needs a little holiday, somewhere quiet. Somewhere he can’t be found. Do you understand me?”

“I understand my husband’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown, if he’s not there already. No thanks to you, I might add.”

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, my dear. What do you think of this necktie?”

“Garish. Look, I really don’t require your advice on the matter of my husband. I’m going to check him into a drying-out hospital of some kind, as soon as possible, and I’d very much appreciate you and your little friends staying as far away from him as possible. Good day, Mr. Burgess.”

She started to turn away, but he snared her wrist under the edge of the counter. “And here I thought you were a nice little mouse,” he said caressingly.