“A woman like Sophia Endering doesn’t just cry out for help,” she growled. “Not to a perfect stranger. Not to anyone, I suspect.”

Storm had already abandoned the pig. He skirted the pickled rat ring. Passed the mermaid skeleton with only a quick glance. She caught up with him as he headed down a short cul-de-sac lined with framed photographs and lit by a single torch.

“What crying for help?” he muttered, pretending to give his full attention to a picture of Popobawa, the winged cyclopean homosexual dwarf of Zanzibar. “Who says she’s crying for help?”

“You know she is.” Harper wagged a wrinkled finger at him. “Why else would she adjust her brooch?”

“What?”

“You have a Hollywood producer’s eye for detail, Storm. You miss absolutely everything of importance.” She shook her head reproachfully. “When you expressed your touchingly ludicrous American belief in the evanescence of history, she adjusted her mother’s brooch—which she had never worn before—and disagreed. Which was as much as to say that the issues surrounding her mother’s death had arisen in some fresh way to disturb her.”

“Harps. Sweetheart. Gimme a break here. I mean, she adjusted her brooch.” And barely looking at her, Storm moved on.

“Er … the book,” whispered Jorge Swade, “the manuscript.” He had come scurrying along after them, anxiously grinding his palms together. His nerves simply couldn’t stand this dissension. “I’ve set it out for you. It’s all prepared.” He gestured hopefully towards a nearby alcove.

“In a moment, my dear,” Harper said with a dismissive wave. “Young Richard …” He was at the cul-de-sac’s far wall now, shaking his head at the latest portrait of Nessie. “You described the conversation to me yourself …”

“Described it? You pumped me with questions about it for two hours.”

“Sophia adjusted the brooch that belonged to her mother—her mother who committed suicide—and then she told you she wanted to die.”

“She didn’t tell me she wanted to die, Harper!” he said over his shoulder. “She told me she wanted to die in the gallery.”

“Why should she want to die anywhere?”

“Oh, for crying …” He lifted his eyes to heaven. “Please!”

Harper rapped the point of her stick impatiently against the earth. It made Jorge jump about a foot behind her, but seemed to have no effect whatsoever on Storm. “What is the matter with you, young Richard? You admitted you sensed it yourself. The woman is asking for your help, crying for your help.”

And here, to Harper’s surprise—to her dismay—he rounded on her almost ferociously.

“Not my help, Harper,” he said between his teeth. “Someone’s help maybe—maybe you’re right—but not mine.”