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Foreign Office and wrote triolets and madrigals.”
    â€œAnother brother – and the grandfather of Mark and myself. Ranulph Raven had any number of younger brothers. He also had three sons, all of whom you’ve met: Everard, Luke and Robert. Mark and I are the children of their first cousin: what are called first cousins once removed. That’s why we say ‘cousin’ to them, although they’re enormously older. Are you uncomfortable, or just restless?”
    â€œNo, I’m not uncomfortable.” Appleby found himself choosing his words with care. “But as it does appear to be necessary that one of us should sit on the other, I think it might be better–”
    â€œRanulph was a novelist.”
    â€œGood lord! Yes. Stupid of me. And enormously prolific. A sort of second Wilkie Collins. But, as I was saying–”
    â€œMr Appleby, if I saw any prospect of sitting on your knee I would certainly prefer it to your sitting on mine. But it’s too late for such a major upheaval. Unless we shout to Heyhoe and make him stop.”
    â€œI think perhaps we’d better do that. I’d be quite pleased to get out and walk.” Appleby paused on this, conscious that it was not the happiest of remarks. “I mean–”
    â€œPerhaps we could manage a shift round, after all. If you get your shoulders over there” – and Appleby felt his shoulders seized and given a vigorous shove – “and these ” – his knees were gripped – “down here–” There followed several seconds of contortion, during which Appleby received a lively if confused impression of the graces of Miss Raven’s person. Then he found himself planted square on a seat and his companion tucked into some vacant corner on the floor. She gave a final wriggle of her thighs somewhere near his ankles. “Anatomy,” she said from out of the darkness, “is a species of knowledge useful in a tight place.” And she laughed – softly but, Appleby thought, with an undertone of her wild, yellow-haired brother.
    â€œUseful, no doubt – and altogether essential to a sculptor.”
    â€œHowever do you know that?” Judith’s voice was quite startled. “What do you know about us all?”
    â€œSingularly little.” Appleby was wondering whether it was to his credit that he was now regretting having ceased to be dandled on the knees of an attractive girl. “But from the particularly inhuman way you look at one I could tell that it was art. And from the muscular force at your disposal in pushing people round I should judge that it is less likely to be just paint brushes than a hefty mallet and chisel. After all, I told you I’m a detective. You remember that Sherlock Holmes used to offer chance acquaintances similar treats.”
    â€œGlyptic work does take a certain amount of punch.” Judith spoke with a shade of complacency. “Really nice girls just mess about with clay, or dabble in oil where their grandmothers dabbled in water-colour. Incidentally, Leonardo da Vinci thought of it in the same feeble fashion. He called painting a liberal art, because you just sit and poke at a canvas in a gentlemanlike way. And he called sculpture a servile art, just because there’s honest sweat in it.”
    â€œDonnish,” said Appleby.
    â€œWhat’s that you say?”
    â€œI said that you too have your Dr Johnson.”
    â€œI’m only making polite conversation. But perhaps you would prefer mute communion?” Judith chuckled maliciously in her corner. “Shall I give your legs a dumb squeeze?”
    â€œNot at all.” Appleby spoke hastily. “I mean I’m most interested in what you say – about Ranulph Raven. A Victorian novelist. And enormously prolific.”
    â€œAh – you’ve noticed Heyhoe.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?” Appleby, whose wits were somewhat frayed by the