Huntingdon Lodge, standing on a high cliff some three miles west of Bournemouth, was approached by a short drive which curved between cedar trees and rhododendron bushes to an impressively pillared front door. Its otherwise agreeable proportions were spoilt by a modern extension and a large parking lot to the left. Care had been taken not to distress visitors by displaying any notice bearing the words “retirement,” “elderly,” “nursing” or “home.” A bronze plaque, highly polished and discreetly placed on the wall beside the iron gates, merely bore the name of the house. The doorbell was answered quickly by a manservant in a short white jacket who directed Dalgliesh to a reception desk at the end of the hall. Here a grey-haired woman, impeccably coiffed and wearing a twinset and pearls, checked his name in the book of expected visitors and smilingly told him that Mr. Kershaw was expecting him and would be found in Seaview, the front room on the first floor. Would Mr. Dalgliesh prefer the stairs or the lift? Charles would take him up.

Opting for the stairs, Dalgliesh followed the young man who had opened the door up the wide mahogany stairs. The walls of the staircase and corridor above were hung with watercolours, prints and one or two lithographs, and on small tables placed against the wall were vases of flowers and carefully arranged china ornaments, most of a cloying sentimentality. Everything about Huntingdon Lodge in its shiny cleanliness was impersonal and, to Dalgliesh, depressing. For him any institution which segregated people from one another, however necessary or benign, evoked an unease which he could trace back to his prep-school days.

His escort had no need to knock at the door of Seaview. It was already open, with Philip Kershaw, balanced on a crutch, awaiting him. Charles made a discreet exit. Kershaw shook hands and, standing aside, said, “Please come in. You’re here, of course, to talk about Candace Westhall’s death. I haven’t been shown her confession but Marcus telephoned our office in Poole and my brother rang me. It was good of you to telephone in advance. With the approach of death one loses the taste for surprise. I usually sit in this armchair beside the fireplace. If you care to draw up a second easy chair, I think you’ll find it comfortable.”