‘A kirk minister back in Ayrshire.’

‘Really?’ Jan Benzie said, but Jean could tell she wasn’t interested. Right now, the cigarette between her fingers meant more to her than anything else.

Jean decided to plough on. ‘There’s a portrait of Dr Lovell in Surgeons’ Hall. I think maybe it was executed at the minister’s behest.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Have you ever seen it?’

‘Can’t say that I have.’

‘He had several wives, Dr Lovell, did you know that?’

‘Three, wasn’t it? Not so many, really, in the scheme of things.’ Benzie seemed to grow thoughtful. ‘I’m on my second husband … who’s to say it’ll stop there?’ She examined the ash at the end of her cigarette. ‘My first committed suicide, you know.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘No reason why you should.’ She paused. ‘Don’t suppose I can expect the same of Jack.’

Jean wasn’t sure what she meant, but Jan Benzie was studying her, seeming to expect some reply. ‘I suppose,’ Jean said, ‘it would look a bit suspicious, losing two husbands.’

‘And yet Kennet Lovell can lose three wives … ?’

Jean’s thinking exactly …

Jan Benzie had risen to her feet, walked over to the window. Jean took another look around the room. All the artefacts, the paintings and framed photographs, candlesticks and crystal ashtrays … she got the feeling none of it belonged to Benzie. It had come with her marriage to Jack McCoist, part of the baggage he brought.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’d better be going. Sorry again to have …’

‘No trouble,’ Benzie said. ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’

Suddenly there were voices out in the hall, and the sound of the front door being closed. The voices began ascending the staircase, coming closer.

‘Claire and my husband,’ Jan said, sitting back down again, arranging herself the way an artist’s model might. The door burst open and Claire Benzie stormed into the room. To Jean’s eye, she bore no physical resemblance to her mother, but perhaps that was partly down to her entrance, the way she crackled with energy.

‘I don’t bloody care,’ she was saying. ‘They can lock me up if they want, throw away the bloody key!’ She was pacing the room as Jack McCoist walked in. He had his wife’s slow movements, but they seemed merely the result of fatigue.

‘Claire, all I’m saying is …’ He leaned down to peck his wife’s cheek. ‘What a bloody awful time we’ve had,’ he informed her. ‘Cops crawling over Claire like lice. Is there any way you can control your daughter, darling?’ His words died as he straightened and saw they had a visitor. Jean was rising to her feet.

‘I really should be going,’ she said.

‘Who the hell’s this?’ Claire snarled.

‘Ms Burchill is from the Museum,’ Jan explained. ‘We’ve been talking about Kennet Lovell.’