Cordelia said:

'Perhaps you could explain what, exactly, you want me to do.'

He frowned into his tea as if reluctant to begin. But when he did his account was lucid, concise and unhesitating.

'My wife is the actress Clarissa Lisle. You may have heard of her. Most people seem to know of her although she hasn't worked much recently. I am her third husband and we married in June 1978. In July 1980 she was employed to play Lady Macbeth at the Duke of Clarence Theatre. On the third night of the advertised six-month run she received what she saw as a death threat. These threats have continued intermittently ever since.'

He began sipping his tea. Cordelia found herself gazing at him with the anxiety of a child hoping that her offering is acceptable. The pause seemed very long. She asked:

'You said that she saw the first note as threatening. Are you implying that its meaning was ambiguous? What form exactly do these threats take?'

'Typewritten notes. Variety of machines by the look of it. Each communication surmounted by a small drawing of a coffin

or a skull. All are quotations from plays in which my wife has appeared. All the quotations deal with death or dying: the fear of death, the judgement of death, the inevitability of death.'

The reiteration of that numinous word was oppressive. But surely it was in her imagination that he twisted it on his lips with mordant satisfaction? She said:

'But they don't specifically threaten her?'

'She sees this harping on death as threatening. She's sensitive. Actresses have to be I suppose. They need to be liked. This isn't friendly. I have the notes here, the ones she kept. The first ones were, thrown away. You'll need the evidence.'

He unclicked the briefcase and took out a stout manilla envelope. From it he spilled a heap of small sheets of paper and began spreading them over the desk.