He said, “How can I describe her to you? How can I make you understand? She was an enchanting child. She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She had grace, gentleness, a fine intelligence. I began getting home early so that I could study in my room and Lucy would join me before she went to bed. She used to knock on my door and come in to sit quietly and read while I was working. I would bring home books, and when I stopped writing to make coffee for myself and a milk drink for her, we would talk. I tried to answer her questions. We spoke about the book she’d been reading. I can see her now. Her clothes looked as if her mother had found them in a jumble sale, long summer dresses in winter under a shapeless cardigan, short socks and sandals. If she was cold she never said so. Some weekends I would ask her mother if I could take her up to London to a museum or gallery. There was never any problem; she was glad to have her out of the way, particularly when she was bringing her men home. I knew what was going on, of course, but it wasn’t my responsibility. I wouldn’t have stayed except for Lucy. I loved her.”

Again there was a silence; then he said, “I know what you’re going to ask. Was this a sexual relationship? I can only say that even the thought would have been a blasphemy for me. I never touched her in that way. But it was love. And isn’t love always to some extent physical? Not sexual but physical? A delight in the beauty and grace of the one who is loved? You see, I’m a schoolmaster. I know all the questions I shall be asked. ‘Were any of your actions inappropriate?’ How can one answer that in an age when even to put your arm round the shoulders of a weeping child is regarded as inappropriate? No, it was never inappropriate, but who is ever going to believe me?”

There was a prolonged silence. After a minute Dalgliesh asked, “At this time, was Shirley Beale, now Sharon Bateman, living in the house?”