They followed him through the porch and to a door to the left of the square entrance hall. Surprisingly, the heavy oak door was shut, and Chandler-Powell opened it. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had intended this first sight of the hall to be so dramatic. He experienced an extraordinary moment in which architecture, colours, shape and sounds, the soaring roof, the great tapestry on the right-hand wall, the vase of winter foliage on an oak table to the left of the door, the row of portraits in their gilt frames, some objects clearly seen even in a first glance, others perhaps dredged from some childish memory or fantasy, seemed to fuse into a living picture which immediately impregnated his mind.

The five people who were seated on either side of the fire, their faces turned towards him, looked like a tableau, cunningly arranged to give the room its identity and humanity. There was a minute, oddly embarrassing because it seemed an inappropriate formality, in which Dalgliesh and Chandler-Powell quickly made their introductions.

Chandler-Powell’s were hardly necessary. The only other male had to be Marcus Westhall, the pale-faced woman with the distinctive features Helena Cressett, the shorter dark woman and the only one whose face bore signs of possible tears, Sister Flavia Holland. The tall, elderly woman standing on the fringe of the group seemed to have been overlooked by Chandler-Powell. Now she came quietly forward, shook Dalgliesh’s hand and said, “Letitia Frensham. I do the accounts.”

Chandler-Powell said, “I understand you already know Dr. Glenister.”

Dalgliesh went over to her chair and they shook hands. She was the only person still seated, and it was apparent from the tea service on a table beside her that she had been served tea. She wore the same clothes as he remembered from their last meeting, trousers tucked into leather boots and a tweed jacket which looked too heavy for her diminutive frame. A wide-brimmed hat, which she invariably wore at a rakish angle, now rested on the arm of the chair. Without it, her head, the scalp half visible through the short white hair, looked as vulnerable as a child’s. Her features were delicate, and her skin was so pale that occasionally she looked like a woman gravely ill. But she was extraordinarily tough, and her eyes, so dark they were almost black, were the eyes of a much younger woman. Dalgliesh would have preferred, as he always did, his long-standing colleague Dr. Kynaston, but he was glad enough to see someone he liked and respected and with whom he had worked before. Dr. Glenister was one of the most highly regarded forensic pathologists in Europe, an author of distinguished textbooks on the subject and a formidable expert witness in court. But her presence was an unwelcome reminder of Number Ten’s interest. The distinguished Dr. Glenister tended to be called in when the government was involved.