‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. ‘Not kill me, I mean. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. Only a book detective could dope this out. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. She vanished from the laboratory for a week, a week of oddly interesting days.
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