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important. I’ll explain when you get here.’
    And then she signs it,” added Harriet.
    â€œWhat in hell’s a macro?” asked John.
    â€œIt’s a lens,” said Harriet. “For copying flat things, like pictures, small objects, you know. In close-up shots.”
    â€œWhy does she think something is going to happen to the baby?”
    â€œMaybe she’s afraid that Guy will follow her home and take Agnes away from her.”
    â€œIf he knows where her parents live he doesn’t have to bother following her.” Sanders shook his head. “I’ll tell you what’s weird about this letter. It’s the unbelievable amounts of nerve that your friends have. Breaking into your house to see you in the middle of the night; asking you to drop everything and drive out to the back of beyond—”
    â€œThat is not what’s weird about it,” said Harriet impatiently. “They’ve always been like that. Here, you look at it.” And she handed the sheet of paper over to him.
    â€œAm I supposed to deduce something very clever from this?” asked Sanders. “Like—the person who wrote this has long hair, a tooth missing, and plays the piano?”
    â€œDon’t be silly. Look at it. Look at the difference between the first and second half of the letter.”
    â€œYou mean that the first half sounds like a suicide note and the second half like a shopping list?” asked John.
    â€œPrecisely.”
    â€œWhat about the handwriting?”
    â€œOh—it’s hers, all right. Or looks very much like it to me. You can see for yourself.” She took the airmail letter out of the top drawer of her desk and waved it in his direction.
    â€œShe doesn’t seem concerned about her relationship with your friend Peter,” John remarked.
    â€œThat’s something else. I’d have said the really bizarre thing in this whole affair is Peter Bellingham claiming to be Jane’s lover.”
    â€œClaiming?”
    Harriet shook her head. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m getting old and my antennae are getting rusty, but Peter strikes me as essentially sexless, and believe me that’s not Jane’s type. I cannot see her putting up with that sweet, helpless, take-care-of-me-Mummy sort of male. But who knows? People change and I’m probably completely off-base. Pay no attention to me. Still, the more I think about it, the less I believe it,” she added.
    John took the two letters and wandered out to the deck to examine them in the subdued light of evening. There was softness in the air; the cold of the weekend had given way to a promise of summer. Harriet had planted herbs and flowers in large pots out here, rendering this sterile, urban space warm and alive. At the moment he would like to tear up these two letters and let them drift on the slight spring breeze until they were far out of his life—and Harriet’s. But he couldn’t. This whole business might be confused and impossible, but it is important to her, he said to himself firmly, and began to examine the paper in front of him.
    â€œI’m not an expert,” he started.
    â€œForget the speech,” said Harriet impatiently. “What do you think?”
    â€œMy gut reaction is that they’re both by the same person, but I’m not sure,” he said. “Honestly not sure. We’d have to check them out with someone at forensic. One of them seems to have been written in a hurry and the other one with great care. That makes it more difficult to tell.”
    â€œOf course it does,” said Harriet, frowning with worry. “Anyone can see that. That’s why I needed your opinion.” She paused, wrapping her arms around her body for warmth. “I see it this way. Either Jane wrote both letters or the second one is a forgery. But can you think of any reason why someone would send me a forged letter purporting to be from