A wooden uncarpeted stair led to the first floor. Here, at the front, was the kitchen, with a small dining room at the back. The kitchen was extraordinarily well arranged and equipped, the room of a woman who knew how to cook, although neither it nor the dining room showed any signs of recent use. They mounted the second flight. There was a guest bedroom with two single beds, the identical counterpanes tightly stretched, and, overlooking the courtyard, a shower and lavatory. Again neither room bore any signs of occupation. The room above was almost a replica, but the bedroom here, with one single bed only, was obviously Miss Gradwyn’s. A bedside table held a modern anglepoise lamp, a carriage clock whose ticking sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, and three books: Claire Tomalin’s biography of Pepys, a volume of Charles Causley’s verse and a collection of modern short stories. The bathroom shelf held very few pots and jars, and Kate, stretching out her hand in feminine curiosity, drew back. Neither Dalgliesh nor she entered the private world of the victim without an awareness that their presence, although necessary, was a violation of privacy. Kate, he knew, had always drawn a distinction between the objects they needed to examine and take away and a natural curiosity about a life which had escaped for ever from any human power either to hurt or embarrass. She merely said, “It doesn’t look as if she tried to camouflage the scar.”