He had crossed the river by ferry-there were no bridges this far down-and he was on the south bank now, where he and Hester had moved after accepting the new job. They could hardly live in Grafton Street anymore. It was miles from police headquarters in Wapping.

He walked up Paradise Street. The lamps misted and he could smell the river and hear the occasional foghorn as the mist drifted across the water. There was ice on the thin puddles in the street. It was still strange to him, nothing familiar.

He put his key into the lock in the door and pushed it open.

"Hester!"

She appeared immediately, apron tied around her waist, her hair pinned hastily and crookedly. She was carrying a broom in her hand but she dropped it as soon as she saw him, and rushed forward. She drew in breath, perhaps to say that he was late, then changed her mind. She studied his face and read the emotion in it.

"What happened?" she asked.

He knew what she was afraid of. She had understood why he had to accept the job in Durban 's place, both morally and financially. With Callandra gone to Vienna they could not afford the freedom or the uncertainty of taking on only private cases. Sometimes the rewards were excellent, but too often they were meager. Some cases could not be solved, or if they were, then the clients had the means to reward him only modestly. They could never plan ahead, and there was no one to whom they could turn to in a bad month, as they had before. Nor, it must be said honestly, at their ages should they need to. It was time to provide, not be provided for.

"What is it? What's wrong?" she asked when he did not answer.

"A suicide off Waterloo Bridge," he replied. "In fact, two, in a way. A young man and woman went off together, but we don't know if it was partly accidental or not."

Relief flashed across her face, then instantly pity. "I'm sorry. Were you called to it?"