Lucy’s posture had been a study in poise, in an effort to communicate her self-control and independent will; but, chilled by this further implication of how much he knew about her, it was once again tested. The questions he’d asked earlier about how old she’d been when her mother left Sydney had her reeling, but she’d tried to conceal her alarm. Her phone started ringing on the table beside her.

“I’m sure it’s Alex. He’ll be worried about me. Best to let me answer.” Her dinner companion assented without debate. It was eerie how genteel, intelligent, and well-mannered he was.

“I’m all right, Alex. And before you ask, yes, I’m eating. I’m being given a fine dinner, in fact. Eat something yourself. I’m sure I can call you the minute we’ve completed our business.” Lucy struggled to hide the emotion his voice sparked; she didn’t want to show weakness. She hung up and raised her eyes defiantly, noticing that her dinner companion’s eyes were intent on the rubied key that peeped from inside her cardigan.

“How fortunate you’ve been, Miss King, to have had such personal concern from your physician. Could he be disciplined for it? I thought it was acceptable to lose a patient, but never to sleep with one.” Lucy couldn’t decide whether this revealed a distaste for sensual relationships, or an understated voyeurism about them. She didn’t blink, however, ignoring his impertinence, and he changed tack. “Why wait until after eleven tonight?” He was softly spoken, and thus more menacing. The paneled door of the Tudor-style hotel suite opened and closed, and Guy Temple rejoined them, without contributing to the conversation.

“Firstly,” she answered him, “it will be easier if the White Hart has closed, otherwise there’ll be too many potentially curious witnesses. Secondly, I believe that the time has to be absolutely precise. If my calculations are correct, it will be exactly four degrees of Taurus near midnight tonight. Something is ordained to happen.”

“I see. The hour when Hamlet sees the ghost. Poetic. And this building you’ve agreed to take us to. You think this is definitely the right one?”

“It has to be. Mortlake was Dee’s ending, but not his beginning—he was born in the Tower of London wards. And though Stratford was Shakespeare’s beginning and ending, he couldn’t have known this prior to his death. I’m sure from the clues that he is the author of the riddles—probably for John Dee. So it must be the inn. It’s the only place left where all the clues merge. The white stag, Shakespeare, the rose, Venus and Adonis. It seems to have been their chosen meeting place for esoteric discussions.”