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precaution to keep their business running via computers, they would keep some paper files.
    â€˜Must get it all straight before I go,’ Maggie sang to herself.
    Bea bit back a sharp retort. Maggie was still going to be here from nine to five, wasn’t she? Well, ten to five, more probably. But her hours of work would not be affected. The girl burst into song, ‘I’m getting married in the morning …’
    Bea tried not to wince. ‘Maggie, where’s the quotes you’ve been getting for me?’
    â€˜Top right-hand drawer of your desk,’ sang Maggie.
    Bea reached for the drawer as the front doorbell pealed above. That would be Piers, drat it. What a time-waster that man was. Yet he could be helpful on occasion; Hamilton had liked him, and kept in touch with him through the years.
    â€˜Shall I go?’ asked Maggie, looking for an excuse to leave her filing.
    Bea shook her head, and went up the stairs to let Piers in. He thrust past her, carrying a large package wrapped in reused cardboard and tied up with string, which he took straight through into the living room. Of course, he’d borrowed the last photograph that Hamilton had had taken, and been doing a portrait of him.
    Piers didn’t bother with a formal greeting. ‘Where will you hang it?’
    He put the picture on the settee and looked around the room with a critical eye. ‘It’s come out quite well, even if I say so myself. I even found myself talking to him the other day. “Hamilton,” I said, “is this portrait of you going to be a comfort to our beloved wife, or drive her insane?”’ Sinewy hands made light work of the packaging, which flew off in all directions.
    â€˜What did Hamilton reply?’ asked Bea, diverted in spite of herself.
    Piers wagged a bony finger at her. ‘He said I had to keep an eye on you, and so I will. Within reason.’ He stripped off the last of the covers to reveal a portrait of Bea’s much-loved husband, dark-haired, round-faced, not quite smiling. Kindly, intelligent eyes seemed to meet hers. Piers had caught Hamilton’s air of serenity remarkably well. Bea sat down with a bump on the nearest chair.
    â€˜It’s good, huh?’ said Piers. ‘I don’t often get to paint a good man. Mostly they’re fat cats with slimy souls.’
    She nodded, unable to speak.
    â€˜You want to borrow a handkerchief?’ Piers didn’t normally keep handkerchiefs about his person, so the question was rhetorical.
    Bea shook her head.
    Piers prowled round the room, which was furnished with antiques of various periods inherited by Hamilton. The walls were hung with watercolours in gilt frames, some of them executed by his aunts. Piers took down one picture, shook his head, replaced it, and finally removed a large watercolour which had been hanging for ever over a small desk at the side of the fireplace. He hung Hamilton’s portrait in its place and stood back, fingers rasping unshaven chin, to check the effect. ‘There!’
    Bea controlled her voice. ‘It’s very good, Piers. Very.’
    â€˜Hmm. Had a struggle to get the mouth right. I didn’t intend him to smile, but he got the better of me. You’ll be amused to hear I could have sold it to a client. A woman, naturally. I suppose I ought to have sent it for exhibition but no … I decided not. I didn’t think he’d like it.’
    â€˜Thank you, Piers.’ It was amazing how the eyes still met hers, even though she was no longer directly in front of the portrait.
    Piers rubbed his hands down over his face. ‘Well, that’s that. We ought to break open some champagne to celebrate, but I know you’re not much into the drinks line. Is there any coffee?’ He yelled out of the door. ‘Maggie, is there any coffee?’
    Bea picked up the packaging he’d strewn around the place, and wondered what to do with the discarded