I was slightly out of breath by the time we climbed the shallow steps of James’s town house and he let us in.
“Would you care for a brandy, or would you prefer to go straight to bed?”
“Straight to bed, please,” I said without any hesitation.
He chuckled, then came to an abrupt halt. “What’s this now?”
On the floor by the letterbox was a lavender envelope with urgent scrawled over it and heavily underscored. There was an excess of air mail postage.
He stooped and picked it up. “This must have come in after Mrs Bostwick left for the day.” On the small table were neat stacks of mail, one for each day we were away.
“What is it?”
“It’s from Barbara.” Obviously he’d recognised the return address. He turned it over in his hands, then walked into the parlour and snapped on the light.
What
