“—but it was worth peanuts,” said Drummond. “Peanuts.”

“How much, at a guess?”

“Five to eight thousand at a push,” said Drummond dismissively.

“Quite a lot of peanuts to some people,” said Strike.

“My dear fellow,” said Henry Drummond, “that wouldn’t have repaired a tenth of the roof at Chiswell House.”

“But he was considering selling it?” asked Strike.

“Along with half a dozen others,” said Drummond.

“I had the impression that Mrs. Chiswell was particularly attached to that painting.”

“I don’t think his wife’s wishes were of much importance to him by the end… Oh dear,” sighed Drummond, “this is all very difficult. I really don’t wish to be responsible for telling the family something that I know will only cause hurt and anger. They’re already suffering.”

He tapped his teeth with a nail.

“I assure you,” he said, “that the reason for my call cannot have any bearing on Jasper’s death.”

Yet he seemed in two minds.

“You must speak to Raphael,” he said, clearly choosing his words with care, “because I think… possibly… I don’t like Raphael,” he said, as though he had not already made that perfectly clear, “but I think, actually, he did an honorable thing on the morning his father died. At least, I can’t see what he personally had to gain by it, and I think he’s keeping silent about it for the same reason as myself. Being in the family, he is better placed to decide what to do than I can be. Speak to Raphael.”

Strike had the impression that Henry Drummond would rather Raphael made himself unpopular with the family.

There was a knock on the office door. Blonde Lucinda put her head inside.

“Mrs. Ross isn’t feeling terribly well, Henry; she’s going to go, but she’d like to say goodbye.”

“Yes, all right,” said Drummond, getting to his feet. “I don’t think I can be of more use, I’m afraid, Mr. Strike.”

“I’m very grateful for you seeing me,” said Strike, also rising, though with difficulty, and picking up his walking stick again. “Could I ask one last thing?”

“Certainly,” said Drummond, pausing.

“Do you understand anything by the phrase ‘he put the horse on them’?”

Drummond appeared genuinely puzzled.

“Who put what horse… where?”

“You don’t know what that might mean?”

“I’ve really no idea. Terribly sorry, but as you’ve heard, I’ve got a client waiting.”

Strike had no alternative but to follow Drummond back into the gallery.

In the middle of the otherwise deserted gallery stood Lucinda, who was fussing over a dark, heavily pregnant woman sitting on a high chair, sipping water.

As he recognized Charlotte, Strike knew that this second encounter could not be a coincidence.

50

… you have branded me, once for all—branded me for life.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

“Corm,” she said weakly, gaping at him over the rim of her glass. She was pale, but Strike, who would have put nothing past her to stage a situation that she could use to her advantage, including skipping food or applying white foundation, merely nodded.

“Oh, you know each other?” said Drummond, surprised.

“I must go,” mumbled Charlotte, getting to her feet while the concerned Lucinda hovered. “I’m late, I’m meeting my sister.”

“Are you sure you’re well enough?” said Lucinda.

Charlotte gave Strike a tremulous smile.

“Would you mind walking me up the road? It’s only a block.”

Drummond and Lucinda turned to Strike, clearly delighted to offload responsibility for this wealthy, well-connected woman onto his shoulders.

“Not sure I’m the best person for the job,” said Strike, indicating his stick.

He felt Drummond and Lucinda’s surprise.

“I’ll give you plenty of warning if I think I’m actually going into labor,” said Charlotte. “Please?”

He could have said “No.” He might have said, “Why don’t you get your sister to meet you here?” A refusal, as she knew well, would make him appear churlish in front of people he might need to talk to again.

“Fine,” he said, keeping his voice just the right side of brusque.

“Thanks so much, Lucinda,” said Charlotte, sliding down from the chair.

She was wearing a beige silk trench coat over a black T-shirt, maternity jeans and sneakers. Everything she wore, even these casual things, was of fine quality. She had always favored monochrome colors, stark or classic designs, against which her remarkable beauty was thrown into relief.

Strike held open the door for her, reminded by her pallor of the occasion when Robin had turned white and clammy at journey’s end, after deftly steering a hire car out of what could have been a disastrous crash on black ice.

“Thank you,” he said to Henry Drummond.

“My pleasure,” said the art dealer formally.

“The restaurant’s not far,” Charlotte said, pointing up the slope as the gallery door swung shut.

They walked side by side, passersby perhaps assuming that he was responsible for her bulging stomach. He could smell what he knew was Shalimar on her skin. She had worn it ever since she was nineteen and he had sometimes bought it for her. Once again, he remembered walking this way towards the argument with her father in an Italian restaurant so many years ago.

“You think I arranged this.”

Strike said nothing. He had no desire to become enmeshed in disagreement or reminiscence. They had walked for two blocks before he spoke.

“Where is this place?”

“Jermyn Street. Franco’s.”

The moment she said the name, he recognized it as the very same one in which they had met Charlotte’s father all those years previously. The ensuing row had been short but exceedingly vicious, for a vein of incontinent spite ran right through every member of Charlotte’s aristocratic family, but then she and Strike had gone back to her flat and made love with an intensity and urgency that he now wished he could expunge from his brain, the memory of her crying even as she climaxed, hot tears falling onto his face as she shouted with pleasure.

“Ouch. Stop,” she said sharply.

He turned. Cradling her belly with both hands, she backed into a doorway, frowning.

“Sit down,” he said, resenting even having to make suggestions to help her. “On the step there.”

“No,” she said, taking deep breaths. “Just get me to Franco’s and you can go.”

They walked on.

The maître d’hôtel was all concern: it was clear that Charlotte was not well.

“Is my sister here?” Charlotte asked.

“Not yet,” said the maître d’ anxiously, and like Henry Drummond and Lucinda, he looked to Strike to share responsibility for this alarming and unsought problem.

Barely a minute later, Strike was sitting in Amelia’s seat at the table for two beside the window, and the waiter was bringing a bottle of water, and Charlotte was still taking deep breaths, and the maître d’ was putting bread down between them, saying uncertainly that Charlotte might feel better if she ate something, but also suggesting quietly to Strike that he could call an ambulance at any moment, if that seemed desirable.