Read that letter, Thames—my lord marquis, I mean. Annabel, I was lying. Quite right. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. ’ It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. ‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. He suspected a trap. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. “Beasts!” But Miss Miniver took no notice of his admission. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen.
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