'H'm,' was her companion's only response.

Monosyllables were typical of him when he was involved in work, but his reply was rather aggravating at the moment since it was after four o'clock and for the last quarter-hour Lady Helen's body had been longing for tea. Oblivious of this, Simon Allcourt-St James began uncapping a collection of bottles that sat in a row before him. These contained minute fibres which he would analyse, staking his growing reputation as a forensic scientist upon his ability to weave a set of facts out of infinitesimal, blood-soaked threads.

Recognizing the preliminary stages of a fabric analysis, Lady Helen sighed and walked to the laboratory window. On the top floor of St James' house, it was open to the late June afternoon, and it overlooked a pleasant brick-walled garden. There, a vivid tangle of flowers made a pattern of undisciplined colour. Walkways and lawn had become overgrown.

'You ought to hire someone to see to the garden,' Lady Helen said. She knew very well that it hadn't been properly tended in the last three years.

'Yes.' St James took out a pair of tweezers and a box of slides. Somewhere below them in the house a door opened and shut.

At last, Lady Helen thought, and allowed herself to imagine Joseph Cotter mounting the stairs from the basement kitchen, in his hands a tray covered by fresh scones, clotted cream, strawberry tarts and tea. Unfortunately, the sounds that began drifting upwards – a thumping and bumping, accompanied by a low grunt of endeavour – did not suggest that refreshments were imminent. Lady Helen sidestepped one of St James' computers and peered into the panelled hall.

'What's going on?' St James asked as a sharp thwack resounded through the house, metal against wood, a noise boding ill for the stairway banisters. He got down awkwardly from his stool, his braced left leg landing unceremoniously on the floor with an ugly thud.