The front door swung open and light poured out to meet him.

“I’m Caroline Stowe. It’s so good of you to come.”

This time the hand that took his was small and soft, and he found himself looking down into the woman’s upturned face. “Duncan Kincaid. Scotland Yard.” With his free hand he pulled his warrant card from his inside jacket pocket, but she ignored it, still grasping his other hand between her own.

His mind having summed up the words Dame and opera as large, he was momentarily taken aback. Caroline Stowe stood a fraction over five feet tall, and while her small body was softly rounded, she could by no stretch of the imagination be described as heavy.

His surprise must have been apparent, because she laughed and said, “I don’t sing Wagner, Mr. Kincaid. My specialty is bel canto. And besides, size is not relevant to strength of voice. It has to do with breath control, among other things.” She released his hand. “Do come in. How rude of me to keep you standing on the threshold like some plumber’s apprentice.”

As she closed the front door, he looked around with interest. A lamp on a side table illuminated the hall, casting shadows on the smooth gray flagstone floor. The walls were a pale gray-green, bare except for a few large gilt-framed watercolors depicting voluptuous, bare-breasted women lounging about Romanesque ruins.

Caroline opened a door on the right and stood aside, gesturing him in with an open palm.

Directly opposite the door a coal fire burned in a grate, and above the mantel he saw himself, framed in an ornate mirror-chestnut hair unruly from the damp, eyes shadowed, their color indistinguishable from across the room. Only the top of Caroline’s dark head showed beneath the level of his shoulder.

He had only an instant to gather an impression of the room. The same gray slate floor, here softened by scattered rugs; comfortable, slightly worn chintz furniture; a jumble of used tea things on a tray-all dwarfed by the baby grand piano. Its dark surface reflected the light from a small lamp, and sheet music stood open behind the keyboard. The bench was pushed back at an angle, as though someone had just stopped playing.