Dalgliesh went over to her chair and they shook hands. She was the only person still seated, and it was apparent from the tea service on a table beside her that she had been served tea. She wore the same clothes as he remembered from their last meeting, trousers tucked into leather boots and a tweed jacket which looked too heavy for her diminutive frame. A wide-brimmed hat, which she invariably wore at a rakish angle, now rested on the arm of the chair. Without it, her head, the scalp half visible through the short white hair, looked as vulnerable as a child’s. Her features were delicate, and her skin was so pale that occasionally she looked like a woman gravely ill. But she was extraordinarily tough, and her eyes, so dark they were almost black, were the eyes of a much younger woman. Dalgliesh would have preferred, as he always did, his long-standing colleague Dr. Kynaston, but he was glad enough to see someone he liked and respected and with whom he had worked before. Dr. Glenister was one of the most highly regarded forensic pathologists in Europe, an author of distinguished textbooks on the subject and a formidable expert witness in court. But her presence was an unwelcome reminder of Number Ten’s interest. The distinguished Dr. Glenister tended to be called in when the government was involved.

Getting to her feet with the ease of a young woman, she said, “Commander Dalgliesh and I are old colleagues. Well, shall we get started? Mr. Chandler-Powell, I’d like you to come up, if Commander Dalgliesh has no objections.”

Dalgliesh said, “None.”

He was probably the only police officer whom Dr. Glenister would invite to concur in any decision of hers. He recognised the problem. There were medical details which only Chandler-Powell could provide, but there were things she and Dalgliesh might want to say which it would be unwise to discuss over the body with Chandler-Powell present. Chandler-Powell had to be a suspect; Dr. Glenister knew it—and so, no doubt, did Chandler-Powell.

They crossed the square entrance hall and climbed the staircase, Chandler-Powell and Dr. Glenister leading. Their feet sounded unnaturally loud on the uncarpeted wood. The stairs led to a landing. The door to the right was open, and Dalgliesh could glimpse a long, low room with an intricate ceiling. Chandler-Powell said, “The long gallery. Sir Walter Raleigh danced there when he visited the Manor. Apart from the furnishings it’s still as it was then.”

No one commented. A second and shorter flight of stairs led to a door which opened onto a carpeted passage with rooms facing west and east.

Chandler-Powell said, “The patients’ accommodation is on this corridor. Suites with sitting room, bedroom and shower. Immediately underneath, the long gallery has been furnished as a joint sitting room. Most patients prefer to stay in their suite or, occasionally, to use the library on the ground floor. Sister Holland’s rooms are the first facing west, opposite the lift.”