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was somewhere close; Dalgliesh could hear small agreeable tinklings and from time to time the thud of the food lift descending from the first-floor dining room. Only one of the four tables was set, the linen immaculate, and Dalgliesh and Ackroyd seated themselves beside the window.
    The menu and wine list were already to the right of Ackroyd’s place. Taking them up, he said: “The Plants have retired, but we’ve got the Jacksons now, and I’m not sure that Mrs. Jackson’s cooking isn’t even better. We were lucky to get them. She and her husband used to run a private nursing home but they got tired of the country and wanted to return to London. They don’t need to work but I think the job suits them. They’ve kept on with the policy of having only one main dish a day at luncheon and dinner. Very wise. Today, white bean and tuna fish salad followed by rack of lamb with fresh vegetables and a green salad. Then lemon tart and cheese to follow. The vegetables will be fresh. We still get all the vegetables and eggs from youngPlant’s smallholding. Do you want to see the wine list? Have you a preference?”
    “I’ll leave that to you.”
    Ackroyd cogitated aloud while Dalgliesh, who loved wine but disliked talking about it, let his gaze range appreciatively over the muddle of a room which despite, perhaps because of, its air of eccentric but organized chaos was surprisingly restful. The discordant objects, not carefully placed for effect, had through time achieved a rightness of place. After a lengthy discussion on the merits of the wine list in which Ackroyd apparently expected no contribution from his guest, he fixed on a chardonnay. Mrs. Jackson, appearing as if in response to some secret signal, brought with her the smell of hot rolls and an air of bustling confidence.
    “Very nice to meet you, Commander. You’ve got the Snug to yourself this morning, Mr. Ackroyd. Mr. Jackson will be seeing to the wine.”
    After the first course had been served, Dalgliesh said: “Why is Mrs. Jackson dressed as a nurse?”
    “Because she is one, I suppose. She used to be a matron. She’s a midwife too, I believe, but we’ve no call for that here.”
    Not surprisingly, thought Dalgliesh, since the club didn’t admit women. He said: “Isn’t that goffered cap with streamers going a bit far?”
    “Oh, do you think so? I suppose we’ve got used to it. I doubt if the members would feel at home if Mrs. Jackson stopped wearing it now.”
    Ackroyd wasted no time in coming to the purpose of the meeting. As soon as they were alone he said: “Lord Stilgoe had a word with me last week in Brooks’s. He’s my wife’s uncle, incidentally. Do you know him?”
    “No. I thought he was dead.”
    “I can’t think how you got that idea.” He prodded at his bean salad irritably and Dalgliesh remembered that he resented any suggestion that someone he knew personally could actually die, and certainly not without the prior knowledge of himself. “He isn’t even as old as he looks, not eighty yet. He’s remarkably spry for his age. Actually he’s publishing his memoirs. The Peverell Press are bringing them out next spring. That’s what he wanted to see me about. Something rather worrying has happened. At least his wife finds it worrying. She thinks he’s had a direct threat of murder.”
    “And has he?”
    “Well, he’s received this.”
    He took some time in taking the small oblong of paper from his wallet and passing it over to Dalgliesh. The words had been accurately typed on a word processor and the message was unsigned.
    Do you really think it wise to publish with Peverell Press? Remember Marcus Seabright, Joan Petrie and now Sonia Clements. Two authors and your own editor dead in less than twelve months. Do you want to be number four?
    Dalgliesh said: “More mischievous than threatening, I should have thought, and the malice directed against the Press rather than Stilgoe. There’s no doubt that Sonia Clements’ death was