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nothing else to think about. She had to. She thought back to the events of last night. After her conversation the day before with Mrs Watson . . .
    She had only been out of the house a couple of times since her release from prison, and it had been difficult to arrange. She had had to face down Reeves, their butler, who was justifiably anxious for her health, and afraid that she might be re-arrested. She put on her oldest dark coat and a faded, flowery hat, took an old parasol, and slipped out of the side door where the deliveries were made. She had noticed no policemen in the Square, and when she had walked a couple of hundred yards she had hailed a motor taxi for Kensington.
    She had found Roland Gardens without difficulty. It was an impressive street of tall, four-storey buildings, some still inhabited by wealthy families, others converted into expensive flats. Nannies pushed prams down it and ladies of Sarah's own class strolled on their way back from the park, talking idly. Nothing in the least unpleasant or disreputable or frightening anywhere.
    Doctor Armstrong's brass plate was on a doorway about halfway down. When she had found it she walked quickly across the road, wondering where on earth she could position herself to watch the entrance. It was difficult, there were no restaurants or shops, nowhere obvious at all. Her only solution was to walk slowly to the end of the street and then, equally slowly, back up the other side. If I do this too often, she thought, people will start to ask questions.
    The hansom cab arrived when she had just begun to turn to go back. A man got out, paid the cabbie, and walked briskly inside.
    Jonathan!
    She knew it was him even from a distance of a hundred yards. She would have known him anywhere — that brisk, lithe figure, the short beard, the casual tilt of the top hat. A gentleman calling for an appointment with his doctor. Nothing unusual about that, nothing suspicious. What could she do now?
    Sarah walked slowly back down the street, thinking. She was not entirely clear why she had come. She had established that he did indeed come to see Martin Armstrong, but that was no secret — it was in his diary, openly admitted. What she really needed to know was what went on inside the house, and that she had no way of knowing. What had the letter said? Treatment — he gets the same treatment as other men? Something like that. But what did that mean? After all, one went to a doctor for treatment. Surely nothing indecent could happen in a proper consulting room, when Jonathan was there with Martin Armstrong?
    What she needed to know was what was being said inside that house. What should she do? Walk up the steps and ring the bell?
    And then go inside and say: ‘Hello, Jonathan, I was just passing and I dropped in to see how your stomach is being treated.’
    The idea was absurd. So was the setting. The street was far too quiet, too respectable, too prosperous. She walked up and down it again, flushed with embarrassment, keeping her parasol between her face and the windows of number 40. She began to think of going home.
    Then, as she turned down the street for the fourth time, a man approached her.
    He was a short, rather stout man, in a business suit and bowler hat. She had seen him leaning against a wall reading a newspaper last time she had come down the street. This time, as she walked past, he fell into step beside her.
    ‘Nice evening for it,’ he said.
    ‘What?’ She glanced at him, surprised, distracted. Just before he had spoken she had seen the door of number 40 begin to open. No one had come out yet but . . .
    ‘I said it's a nice evening, dear,’ the man said. She glanced at him and saw he was smiling in a way she didn't like. ‘Got a place near here, have you?’ He offered her his arm.
    What on earth did he mean? Despite herself, the polite gesture of a man offering a lady his arm was so compelling that she moved her own hand automatically towards his elbow, before she