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a final version of my own poems. I cannot stop myself from going over them again and again. I get quite frustrated and depressed. But for some reason when I dictate them, the words come more freely.”
    Ursula had stayed awake late into the night contemplating two things—the fact that she might never see Slater again and a way to introduce the subject of Anne Clifton when she met with Lady Fulbrook. There was no answer to the problem of Slater Roxton but when it came to the matter of the investigation she concluded that a few straightforward questions might not seem suspicious.
    â€œI realize it must have come as a shock to learn that Miss Clifton had passed,” she said gently. “You were accustomed to working with her, after all, and had no doubt established a certain routine.”
    â€œYes, Anne—Miss Clifton—was an excellent secretary.” Valerie sighed. “I will miss her. You say the police believe she took her own life?”
    â€œYes. Those of us who knew her at the agency were astonished by that news but evidently there is little doubt about the facts.”
    â€œI see.” Valerie shook her head. “How sad. Anne was not only a flawless stenographer and typist. Our working relationship was such that, toward the end, she was actually quite helpful to me. When I had difficulty with my poems, we would discuss the overarching theme. Often the perfect word or turn of phrase became clear to me.”
    â€œI doubt that I will be as helpful in that regard,” Ursula said. “But I will do my best.”
    Valerie glanced out the window with the air of a prisoner peering through the bars of a cell.
    â€œYou will be surprised to hear this, Mrs. Kern, but these past few months, Anne was the closest thing I had to a friend. I never leave the house now, you see. I looked forward to my twice-weekly appointments with Anne. She was my lifeline to the outside world. I feel her loss quite keenly.”
    â€œI understand.”
    There was a moment of silence and then Valerie rose from her chair with a dignified but weary air.
    â€œShall we begin?” she said. “I think best in my conservatory. That is where I receive my inspiration. I trust you will not mind if we work there?”
    â€œOf course not.” Ursula collected the satchel containing her notebook and pencils and got to her feet.
    Valerie led the way toward the door of the study. “I frequently employ images and themes taken from nature.”
    â€œI see.”
    At the end of the cavernous hall, another silent, somber-faced maid opened the door. Ursula followed Valerie outside and across a stone terrace. They walked toward a magnificent iron-and-glass conservatory that loomed in the foggy afternoon light.
    When they reached the door Valerie took out a key.
    â€œThe conservatory is my realm, Mrs. Kern,” she said. “It is the one place where I find peace of mind. The poem I am currently working on is titled ‘On a Small Death in the Garden.’”
    It was, Ursula concluded, going to be a very long and rather depressing afternoon.

NINE

    S he escaped the gloom-filled Fulbrook mansion promptly at three.
Escape
was not too strong a word, Ursula told herself. There was an ominous sensation about the household that was difficult to put into words. No wonder Anne had often referred to the mansion as a mausoleum.
    She went quickly down the steps into the heavy fog. Preoccupied with mulling over her first impressions of the Fulbrook household and its inhabitants, she did not notice the sleek black carriage waiting on the other side of the street until Griffith raised his gloved hand to get her attention.
    â€œNo need to hail a cab, Mrs. Kern,” he called across the width of the quiet street. “We’ll see you home.”
    Startled, she came to a halt. “What on earth?”
    But the door of the carriage had already opened. Slater, dressed in a high-collared greatcoat and