“How do you do,” she said, and gave him her hand. With the touch of his hard, square fingers, the flash of empathy faded. He was just another man, and this was just another normal social occasion.

She sat down in one of the big, soft leather chairs and watched with amusement as Collins tried to get his long arms and legs folded back into a sitting position. Gordon was hovering. He looked pathetically pleased, and it was significant, she knew, that he nodded at Briggs without making her ask for a drink.

Briggs bustled over to the bar and began fussing with ice cubes, bottles, and glasses. Linda’s nerves tightened as she watched him. She detested him even more than she did the other servants-although, as Gordon’s secretary, he was not to be regarded, or treated, as a servant. He was a pale, puffy man; the texture of his skin suggested clay or bread dough, some substance that would not rebound elastically from the prod of a finger, but would retain the impression. Gordon claimed that he was a very efficient secretary. She found that hard to believe. His movements, when away from the typewriter, were fussy, slow, and inept. Finally he came back with her drink, and she tried not to touch his hand as she took it. His fingers were always damp.

“We were just discussing Michael’s last book, Linda,” Gordon said. “I think you read it; I know I recommended it to you.”

So they were on first-name terms already.

“Oh, yes,” she said, and sipped her drink. “I read it. It was very good.”

She saw Michael flush a little at the coldness of the compliment, and added smoothly, “I particularly liked the chapter on the relationship between Emily and Bramwell. You caught something there which no other biographer has understood.”