As usual with Charles Bannister, there was nothing to be done about it.

She collected her thoughts, and began to retrace her steps, across the Park towards the hotel.

She let herself into the suite quietly, closing the door with a furtive hand. She crossed to her own room, still treading softly, and entered it. She did not switch on the lights. Instead, she walked to the window that gave on to the balcony, and looked out, enjoying as always the view of London at dusk. There was magic in the lights, entrancement in the pale night sky above the rooftops: the traffic noises far below whispered like a nocturne. Then a slight movement on the balcony outside caught her eye.

A few yards along, level with Esther’s room which adjoined her own, a man was crouching.

She knew now why she had entered the suite like a conspirator; she knew that the man was Charles, and she knew what he was doing. He was looking through the curtains into Esther’s room, where Esther was either in bed, or dressing for the evening.

Sick at heart, powerless before evil, she opened the communicating door and went into the next room. Without surprise, she saw that Esther was standing before her wardrobe, naked, feeling for some underclothes on one of the upper shelves. Her slim body, reaching upwards, had a flawless grace.

Not looking towards the window, ignoring the gap in the curtain, Mrs Bannister touched the girl gently on the shoulder, and then began to help her. She felt herself trembling, and her protective back, now placed between Esther and the window, seemed to be on fire.

Mrs Bannister had no idea what to do, except never to leave Esther undefended. She had the desperate hope that if she could only stave off the crisis until they left England, it would make a vital difference: once out of London, Charles Bannister would surely shrink again, and lose his dangerous quality, and become manageable. She blamed herself for not having foreseen this disgusting turn of events – or rather, for having foreseen it and yet decided that it could not possibly happen. She remembered a thousand things that had been pointers, as sharp as needles, towards the present situation.

They had been living too close together, all the time. She had seen Charles eyeing the girl, letting his eyes slide down from throat to waist, from waist to thigh, unguarded in lust, secure in Esther’s blindness – and she had still thought: he can’t intend to do a thing like that. She had noticed him helping Esther, leading her forward with an arm round her waist, once fondling her neck as he helped to fasten her necklace. She had allowed him to hold the girl’s hand and arm for an hour or more, trying – or pretending to try – to communicate with her as she did herself.

She had watched him exploit all the furtive contacts to which Esther was exposed, under the cloak of ‘guidance’ – hand on elbow or shoulder as she went through a doorway, hand on waist or thigh as her chair cushion was adjusted. She had seen her husband meanly taking advantage of all these opportunities – and then seen his eyes and face change, as he became aware that he was being watched.