Perched on top of a 1951 taxi with the driver — I wish someone would tell me where they get these male mannequins — leering up at me like a pervert. Oh, yes, and a bit of au natural showing here and there. My au naturel, if it comes to that. All the driver has to do is look like Jack the Ripper. I borrowed this shirt from one of the technicians. We're breaking for now, so I thought I'd pop over for a visit.' She looked round the room curiously. 'So. It's past four. Where's tea?'

St James nodded towards the package which Lady Helen had left leaning against the wall. 'You've caught us in disarray this afternoon.'

'Deborah's coming home tonight, Sid,' Lady Helen said. 'Did you know?'

Sidney's face lit. 'Is she at last? Then, those must be some of her snaps. Wonderful! Let's have a peep.' She hopped off her stool, shook the package as if it were an early Christmas gift, and blithely proceeded to remove its outer wrapping.

'Sidney,' St James admonished her.

'Pooh. You know she wouldn't mind.' Sidney tossed away the sturdy brown paper, untied the cords of a black portfolio, and picked up the top portrait from the stack within. She looked it over, whistling between her teeth. 'Lord, the girl's handier with a camera than she's ever been.' She passed the photograph to Lady Helen and went on with her perusal of the others in the stack.

Self and Bath. The three words were scrawled in haphazard script across the bottom edge of the picture. It was a nude study of Deborah herself, arranged in three-quarter profile to the camera. She had composed the piece cleverly: a shallow tub of water; the delicate arch of her spine; a table nearby on which sat a pitcher, hairbrushes and comb; filtered light striking her left arm, her left foot, the curve of her shoulder. With a camera and using herself as a model, she had copied The Tub by Degas. It was lovely.

Lady Helen looked up to see St James nod as if in appreciation of it. He walked back to his equipment and started sorting through a stack of reports.