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more nauseated by the color of the station’s walls, a hue known as “avocado” when used for bathroom fittings. But his habituation to the horrors of real death never stopped his offering a brief prayer for the deceased before the professional in him took over.
    In defiance of its name, the Underground railway was open to the sky as it passed through Sloane Square station, although a long, curving roof covered each platform. The police had erected a low barricade of orange plastic around the body, a woman in her late middle age. Despite the blistering weather, she was wearing a head scarf and woolen coat, which indicated to Mallard that she had risen early and possessed the natural meteorological pessimism of the British working class. She lay on her back, dead from a single, massive blow to the forehead that distorted her features and had clearly shattered her skull.
    Behind him, an eastbound train trundled slowly through the station without stopping. Westbound trains had been halted on both the Circle and District Lines.
    â€œWhy am I here?” Mallard muttered to himself. Getting no answer, he decided to ask his sergeant, who was talking to the scene-of-crime officer a few yards away. “Strongitharm!”
    Detective Sergeant Strongitharm, Mallard’s assistant for the last eighteen months, hurried over to the superintendent, taking the low makeshift fence in a single stride. This action caused several other police officers to catch their breath, not so much because of the quality of Strongitharm’s legs—although the policemen were unstinting in their silent admiration—but because of the abruptness of their revelation. A second later, and Effie Strongitharm’s pleated skirt had returned to her knees. Most of her colleagues knew better than to make any audible comment, and the one detective constable who did let slip an involuntary grunt was immediately treated to a glare from Effie’s large, light-blue eyes. For some reason, he suddenly found himself remembering the impulse he’d had as an eight-year-old to be a missionary to the Congo, and wondering if he’d forgotten his parents’ wedding anniversary again.
    â€œWhy are we here, Sergeant?” Mallard asked again.
    â€œBecause I read your note about Sir Harry Random.”
    â€œAh good. Did you find out about the Trafalgar Square fountains?”
    â€œOf course, first thing. They’d been on all night.”
    â€œRather wasteful of the Earth’s resources,” Mallard commented ruefully. “So it seems as if Ollie may have a point. How could Sir Harry have struck his head so severely if the fountain was already full of water? We’d better have another look at the evidence.”
    â€œThat evidence is why we’re here, Chief,” said Effie. “You mentioned the symbol drawn on Sir Harry’s shirtfront. When the report of this new murder came in an hour ago, it said something about a sign or symbol found near the body. I thought you’d like to take a look. The scene-of-crime officer is D.S. Welkin.”
    â€œGood work, Sergeant.”
    Effie beamed and checked the resilience of her hair-ribbon, readjusting a couple of sizeable hairpins. Her hair, which varied in color between gold and mouse, was long and excessively curly. Although she started every day by brushing it vehemently and tying it back with a ribbon, its springiness would inevitably triumph, and by lunchtime her head took on the silhouette of a truncated Christmas tree.
    Most people noticed Effie’s hair first. When they moved on to her round, soft-featured face, they might also notice that she was exceedingly pretty. And yet from Effie’s first appearance in the male-dominated culture of a Scotland Yard incident room, there had been no wolf whistles, no loud sexist remarks or dirty jokes, no semi-accidental groping or squeezing. Neither her easily burlesqued name nor her easily caricatured outline had