CHAPTER ONE

      THE pale February sunshine shining through the window highlighted the pleasant room beyond: a room of restful colours, greens and blues and greys, chosen no doubt to dispel the unease of the patients who entered it. Such a one was on the point of leaving, escorted to the door by Professor Jason Lister, a large, very tall man, remarkably handsome with it. He shook hands now, gave the lady a reassuring smile, and handed her over to his receptionist before closing the door again and going back to his desk to pick up his pen and begin to write.

      He had hardly done so when the door opened and the receptionist poked her head round it. The professor didn’t lift his head. ‘Later, Mrs Wells, I’m due at the hospital in half an hour…’

      ‘Yes, I know, sir, but it’s Mrs Gault on the outside line. She says she must speak to you at once.’

      He took off his reading-glasses and sighed. ‘Very well.’ He smiled as he spoke, and Mrs Wells, a middle-aged widow with a sentimental heart, beamed at him.

      The voice at the other end of the phone was urgent and agitated. ‘Jason? Is that you?’ The voice didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from that place in Chile where Tom is—he’s ill, and they want me to go there as soon as possible. I’m packing now. The children have half-term tomorrow and my flight goes midmorning. I can’t leave them here alone…’

      ‘Where is Patty?’

      ‘She’s gone home to nurse her mother—I’ve been managing without her. Jason, what shall I do?’

      ‘The children can come here; I’ll find someone to collect them and look after them while you’re away. I can’t get to your place, I’m afraid, but I’ll arrange something and phone you back. Don’t worry more than you must.’

      He put down the receiver, switched on the intercom, and asked Mrs Wells to come in.

      ‘We have a problem,’ he told her, his placid voice giving no hint of the size of it. And when he had finished telling her, he asked, ‘Do you know of an agency where I can get someone at a moment’s notice?’

      ‘Yes, I do, sir. There’s a very good one—in Kingsway, I believe. I can look it up. Will you speak to them?’

      ‘Please, and as soon as possible.’

      The mellifluous voice at the agency assured him that a person suitable to his requirements would be sent immediately.

      ‘After six o’clock,’ he made the request, ‘and this is the address. It must be someone who is prepared to travel down to Tisbury—that is a small town in Wiltshire—by the early-morning train.’

      The professor put down the receiver, put his spectacles on again and resumed his writing, and presently took himself off to the hospital in his dark grey Rolls Royce.

      When the phone rang, Araminta was peeling potatoes. She dried her hands and went to answer it, although her sister Alice was sitting within a foot of the instrument, but then Alice had been told two years ago that she had anaemia and must lead a quiet life, an instruction which she obeyed to the letter, encouraged by their father, who doted on her.

      ‘Yes?’ said Araminta, anxious to get back to the potatoes.

      ‘Miss Smith? I have an urgent job for you. Short-term, I believe.’

      The woman from the agency gave the details in a businesslike manner. ‘After six o’clock, and Professor Lister is depending on you.’

      She rang off prudently before Araminta could refuse to go.

      ‘That’s a job,’ said Araminta. ‘I’ll finish the potatoes, but perhaps you could cook the supper. I may be gone for a few hours.’

      Alice looked alarmed. ‘But, Araminta, you know I’m supposed to take life easily…’

      ‘I don’t suppose it would harm you to grill the chops, love. We do need the money—Father borrowed the housekeeping. I don’t know what for.’

      Alice looked awkward. ‘Well, I did mention that I needed another dressing-gown, and he bought me one.’

      Araminta turned round at the door. She spoke cheerfully, for there was no point in voicing her hurt that their father loved Alice dearly and regarded herself as the housekeeper and occasional wage-earner. He was kind to her and sometimes, when he remembered, he told her how useful it was that she was so handy around the house, as well as getting the occasional job from the agency. ‘There’s plenty of food in the fridge if I’m not back in a day or two.’

      She finished the potatoes, changed into her tweed jacket and skirt—suitable for the occasion, she hoped— made sure that her hair was neatly coiled and that her nose was powdered, found an umbrella and went to catch a bus.

      It was a long bus ride from her home in a narrow street near Warren Street station to the address she had been given—a small street close to Cavendish Square— and it was already after five o’clock. Six o’clock had long since struck by the time she reached the house, one of a terrace of Regency houses, pristine in their gleaming paint and shining brasswork, and she paused a moment to take a good look before mounting the steps to its front door.

      It was opened by an elderly, rotund man with a fringe of hair and an