They seated themselves and Dalgliesh placed his briefcase on the table between them. It seemed to Dalgliesh that Philip Kershaw was prematurely aged by his illness. The sparse hair was carefully combed over a skull marked with scars, perhaps the evidence of old falls. His yellow skin was stretched across the sharp bones of his face, which might once have been handsome but was now mottled and crisscrossed as if with the hieroglyphics of age. He was as carefully dressed as an elderly bridegroom, but the shrivelled neck rose from a pristine white collar which was at least a size too large. He looked both vulnerable and pitiable, but his handshake, although cold, had been firm and when he spoke, his voice was low but the sentences formed without apparent strain.

Neither the size of the room nor the quality and variety of the discordant pieces of furniture could disguise the fact that this was a sickroom. There was a single bed set against the wall to the right of the windows and a screen which, seen from the door, didn’t completely conceal the oxygen cylinder and drugs cabinet. Close to the bed was a door which, Dalgliesh surmised, must lead to the bathroom. There was only one top window open, but the air was odourless, without even the faint tinge of a sickroom, a sterility which Dalgliesh found more discomforting than the smell of disinfectant would have been. There was no fire in the grate, not surprising in the sickroom of an unsteady patient, but the room was warm, uncomfortably so. The central heating must be on full-blast. But the empty grate was cheerless; the mantelshelf bore only the porcelain figure of a crinolined and bonneted woman incongruously holding a garden hoe, an ornament which Dalgliesh doubted was Kershaw’s choice. But there were worse rooms in which to endure house arrest, or something like it. The only item of furniture which Dalgliesh thought Kershaw had brought with him was a long oak bookcase, the volumes so tightly packed that they looked glued together.

Glancing at the window, Dalgliesh said, “You have an impressive view.”

“Indeed yes. As I am frequently reminded, I’m regarded as fortunate to have this room; fortunate, too, in being able to afford this place. Unlike some other nursing homes, they graciously condescend to care for one, if necessary, until death. Perhaps you’d like to take a closer look at the view.”