Her eyes widened a little, and I suddenly saw in them how old she really was. Then she lowered her gaze and summoned composure. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kovacs. I’ve forgotten my manners. The police, as you see, have not been sympathetic. It’s been very upsetting, and we all still feel a little on edge. If you can imagine—”

“There’s no need to explain.”

“But I am very sorry. I’m not usually like this. None of us are.” She gestured around as if to say that the two armed guards behind her would ordinarily have been bearing garlands of flowers. “Please accept my apologies.”

“Of course.”

“My husband’s waiting for you in the seaward lounge. I’ll take you to him immediately.”

The inside of the house was light and airy. A maid met us at the veranda door and took Mrs. Bancroft’s tennis racket for her without a word. We went down a marbled hallway hung with art that, to my untutored eye, looked old. Sketches of Gagarin and Armstrong, Empathist renderings of Konrad Harlan and Angin Chandra. At the end of this gallery, set on a plinth, was something like a narrow tree made out of crumbling red stone. I paused in front of it and Mrs. Bancroft had to backtrack from the left turn she was making.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Very much. This is from Mars, isn’t it.”

Her face underwent a change that I caught out of the corner of my eye. She was reassessing. I turned for a closer look at her face.

“I’m impressed,” she said.

“People often are. Sometimes I do handsprings too.”

She looked at me narrowly. “Do you really know what this is?”

“Frankly, no. I used to be interested in structural art. I recognise the stone from pictures, but…”

“It’s a Songspire.” She reached past me and let her fingers trail down one of the upright branches. A faint sighing awoke from the thing and a perfume like cherries and mustard wafted into the air.