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in the company of her husband. The two of them owned and operated a café in Putney, one of those places specializing in mango-flavoured cappuccino and hand-churned yogurt. Two days ago the husband announced he had fallen for the sloe-eyed harpy who runs the used-clothing shop down the street—”
    “The harpy,” I reminded him sternly, “is a six-foot ex-rugger player by the name of Robert Meyers and, as Gerta tearily explained it, she never stood a chance when Robert offered to arm-wrestle her for the man in their lives. The result was the poor woman found herself out in the street with nothing to show for her married life but the clothes on her back—which happened to be her alpine work uniform—and a packet of mocha deluxe coffee beans to go. Not a pretty story.”
    “Love can be a cutthroat business.” Ben pried himself away from the mantelpiece and came to sit beside me on the bed. “It was fortunate Gerta had enough loose change in her purse to ring up her friend Jill, who, in addition to taking her in for the night, mentioned that her former flatmate, one Ellie Haskell, was looking for an au pair.” Cupping my face in his hands, he pressed a kiss against my lips, which were by now pretty much numb with exhaustion, and murmured, “Do I get top marks for paying attention?”
    “Yes, dear; but I’m not handing out any prizes tonight.” Flopping back against the pillows, I did wonder if I might be leading my husband on by permitting him a glimpse of leg as he rolled me, like an unwieldy strudel, under the bedclothes. Even so, I’m ashamed to say it was the possibility of eating lots of hand-thrown apple strudelin the days ahead that quickened my pulses as Ben climbed in beside me and switched off the table lamp.
    Turning on my side and repositioning Ben’s hand around my waist, I thought about Jill, who in addition to being my ex-flatmate was also Cousin Freddy’s girlfriend when they remembered to get in touch with each other. It was typical of her to extend a helping hand to Gerta. It was also typical that Jill had waited until midnight to telephone and inform us she was sending along an au pair who desperately needed the job, was of sound moral character, and could yodel like a dream. Jill’s was the phone call that had sounded while I was in the throes of Sir Gavin’s expert seduction.
    I swallowed a yawn. If Gerta had shown any signs of being a homicidal maniac, Jill—who not only refuses to smash bugs but endeavours to find good homes for them—would not have landed us with the woman. Naturally, it would be wise to check out the references Gerta had provided. But I was optimistic that she would prove to be a treasure. She had been determinedly cheerful when Heathcliff trailed after us up the stairs, appeared delighted with her room, was eager to take a look at the twins, but understanding when I suggested we defer the introductions till the morning. Having lent her one of my nighties and a dressing gown, I had bidden her good night without wondering once if I should lock her door from the outside.
    Our doggy visitor, however, was another matter. After feeding him two bowls of cat food under the watchful eye of Tobias Cat, who had scaled the Welsh dresser in the kitchen and was threatening a nervous breakdown, I had let Heathcliff out into the garden and, shortly thereafter, shut him away in the cupboard under the stairs. So far we had heard no howls of protest or sounds of his body slamming against the door with the reckless disregard for property typical of a policeman on a drug bust.
    “That dog’s being awfully quiet.” Ben shifted up onto his elbow to lean over me just as I was sinking into soft clouds of sleep.
    “I’m sure Miss Bunch had him well trained,” I murmured while stuffing my head under the pillow.
    “Well, don’t go getting any ideas of using your feminine charms to get me to change my mind about keepingthe hound.” My husband lay back down and wrapped an arm and a leg