Walking around the square, he looked more closely at the bulk of St. Luke’s Church, its tall spire dominating the green. Since last night’s conversation with Grace about the architecture of Chartres, he found himself more concentrated on the Gothic Revival shape—which looked forbiddingly grim, however, in the still wintry March light. The arrival of summertime after the upcoming weekend would bring a welcome psychological shift.

He noticed Siân’s blue Fiat Uno parked in a residents’ space just beyond the doorstep to her apartment building. She can’t have gone far, he thought, remembering the emotional state she was in yesterday morning, and feeling some relief. He pushed the buzzer, but there was no response; he stepped back and looked up at the building again. That was her light, without doubt; so he returned up the steps and pushed the bell again. Nothing. He checked his watch: he was only a few minutes late. Was she in the bath? He dialed her number again from his cell phone; the line was now busy. He pondered for a minute or two. She could easily reach the entry phone to let him in if she was talking—unless she was locked in conversation with Calvin and refusing to be distracted. Then he suddenly worried about whether she might have done something silly, and quickly pushed another bell. A voice on the intercom asked his name.

“Hi there. It’s Dr. Alex Stafford. I’ve come to see Siân, in flat five. The lights are on but she’s not responding to her bell. Could you possibly let me in? She should be expecting me, and I’m worried she might not be feeling well.”

“Which flat did you say?” the voice tested.

“Siân Powell—in flat five. I’m Will Stafford’s brother.”

“Oh yes—the doctor. The top-floor flat, isn’t it?”