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champagne.’
    Dame Amelia was one of her favourite people on the London literary scene, which had nothing to do with the fact that she was also one of Charles Elder’s leading authors. Amelia penned light-hearted but technically accomplished whodunits in the Christie and Sayers mould, did not take herself at all seriously, and treated Maria like a favourite niece.
    â€˜Did I ever tell you that I penned a rather trenchant review of Gideon’s first novel, back in ’forty-seven? He’s never forgiven me for it.’ She leaned closer to Maria and whispered. ‘But it deserved every word I wrote, and I must admit I was savage. It was terrible!’
    â€˜I can imagine,’ Maria said. ‘I made the mistake of reading one of his efforts after our first meeting. It was almost as conceited as the man himself.’
    Dame Amelia laughed. ‘We really should have lunch very soon and catch up,’ she said. ‘I will call you at the agency and arrange something at Martinelli’s next week.’ She peered across the room. ‘My word, am I mistaken or is that really Maurice? You haven’t met? Then I shall introduce you!’ And, taking Maria firmly by the hand, she escorted her across the room.
    The evening wore on and, in comparison to Gideon Martin, the other guests were the acme of sophistication and courteousness. Maria had a third glass of champagne and at one point scanned the crowd for any sign of the obnoxious man, but he had taken the hint and left the party.
    It was only later, on her fourth glass of champagne while she was thinking of Monsieur Savagne being outmanoeuvred by Martin, that an exquisite notion occurred to her. She cornered her father and regaled him with her idea, and to her delight he said that he would think it over.
    She enjoyed the rest of the evening and it was after one o’clock by the time she arrived back at her Kensington apartment.

THREE
    L angham sat in his Austin Healey and glanced at his wristwatch.
    It was five twenty-six and he told himself he’d enter the swimming baths on the dot of five thirty. Now that it was almost time to confront the youth, he was having second thoughts. It was all very well to promise Charles an expedient outcome in the comfort of his office after a stiff drink, but the reality of the situation was another thing entirely. It was nine years since he’d worked at the investigative agency, and since then had cosseted himself in a safe fictional world that existed entirely within the bounds of his imagination. He was about to confront someone who was obviously not averse to criminal acts, and he was more than a little apprehensive.
    He was parked in a quiet side street off Lower Clapton Road. The public swimming baths, a solid Victorian pile in grey Portland stone, dominated the street like a duchess down on her luck. Parents with children exited through the peeling blue doors, along with individual men and women carrying rolled towels. The baths closed at six and were emptying fast.
    He watched a couple pass along the pavement. Hand in hand, they gazed at each other as they walked, welded together by the force of obvious mutual attraction. He felt a sudden pang when he mistook the woman for Maria – they shared the same slight stature and gamine good looks – but then the woman laughed and he realized he was mistaken. Maria was far lovelier.
    He looked at his watch and smiled. So much for punctuality. It was five thirty-three. He left the car and hurried across the road and up the steps.
    The overwhelming chemical stench of chlorine hit him as he pushed open the heavy double doors. He was confronted by low turnstiles, and memories of his schooldays came flooding back. Once a week his class had walked through the streets of Nottingham to the public bathhouse, similar in every respect to this one. He’d loathed these trips, hated the shock of immersion in what seemed like ice-cold water, hated the dead