CHAPTER ONE
It was nine o clock on a Wednesday morning in May， and
Andrew Basnett， who had been out late the evening before
and had overslept， was in his kitchen， dressed in pyjamas， his
dressing gown and a pair of socks， and was making coffee for
his breakfast when the doorbell rang.
Assuming that it was the p.ostman， trying to deliver a pack-
age that would not go throdgh the letter box， Andrew went
to the door and opened it.
It was not the postman. 12 was Andrew s old friend and
colleague Professor Constance Camm， F.R.S.， whom it was
very surprising to find at his door at that hour of the morning.
Now that she was retired， she lived with her sister in the
village of Lindleham in Berkshire， and on the occasions when
she wanted to meet Andrew， usually made careful arrange-
ments by telephone several days beforehand. She would
then probably invite him to lunch with her at her club， or
after some persuasion might allow him to take her out to
lunch at one of his favourite Soho restaurants. She had only
rarely visited the fiat in St. John s Wood， where he lived， and
then never at such an early hour.
He felt embarrassed on seeing her， not only because she
had caught him in pyjamas and dressing gown and still un-
shaven， but mostly because he was without slippers. When he
was alone in his fiat he usually padded about it in his socks，
leaving his slippers wherever it had occurred to him to kick
them off. Today they were on the rug in the middle of his
sitting room， and the first thing that he did on bringing her
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