There was no need to specify which door. Only that on the ground floor of the west wing led directly to the terrace and to the lime walk. She was waiting for him, coated and with a woollen scarf tied over her head. The door was locked but unbolted, and he locked it behind them. They walked for a minute in silence which Chandler-Powell had no intention of breaking. Still annoyed at the loss of his evening, he was disinclined to be helpful. Flavia had asked for this meeting. If she had anything to say, let her say it.

It wasn’t until they had reached the end of the lime walk, and after a few seconds of indecision had turned back, that she stopped walking and faced him. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but her body was rigid and there was a harshness and a resolution in her voice that he had never heard before.

“We can’t go on as we are. We have to make a decision. I’m asking you to marry me.”

So it had come, the moment he had dreaded. But it was meant to be his decision, not hers. He wondered why he hadn’t seen it coming, then realised that the demand, even in its brutal explicitness, wasn’t totally unexpected. He had chosen to ignore the hints, the moodiness, the sense of a grievance unexpressed amounting almost to rancour. He said calmly, “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Flavia.”

“Of course it’s possible. You’re divorced, I’m single.”

“I mean that it wasn’t something I’ve ever considered. From the beginning our relationship was never on that footing.”

“What footing exactly did you think it was on? I’m speaking of when we first became lovers—eight years ago, in case you’ve forgotten. On what footing was it then?”

“I suppose sexual attraction, respect, affection. I know I felt all those things. I never said I loved you. I never mentioned marriage. I wasn’t looking for marriage. One failure is enough.”