All those Importances who had made such a to-do over so much in their day. All just names. Just canvas and paint. I saw a lot of that portrait in those days.' Her attention went back to the picture. 'A most unhappy creature,' she said.

'My surgeon thinks it is poliomyelitis.'

'Polio?' She considered it. 'Perhaps. I hadn't thought of it before. But to me it has always seemed to be intense unhappiness. It is the most desperately unhappy face that I have ever encountered and I have encountered a great many.'

'You think it was painted later than the murder, then?'

'Oh, yes. Obviously. He is not a type that would do anything lightly. A man of that calibre. He must have been well aware of how heinous the crime was.'

'You think he belonged to the type who can't live with themselves any more.'

'What a good description! Yes. The kind who want something badly, and then discover that the price they have paid for it is too high.'

'So you don't think he was an out-and-out villain?'

'No; oh, no. Villains don't suffer, and that face is full of the most dreadful pain.'

They considered the portrait in silence for a moment or two.

'It must have seemed like retribution, you know. Losing his only boy so soon after. And his wife's death. Being stripped of his own personal world in so short a time. It must have seemed like Divine justice.'

'Would he care about his wife?'

'She was his cousin, and they had known each other from childhood. So whether he loved her or not, she must have been a companion for him. When you sit on a throne I suspect that companionship is a rare blessing. Now I must go and see how my hospital is getting on. I have not even asked the question that I came to ask. Which was how you felt this morning. But it is a very healthy sign that you have interest to spare for a man dead these four hundred years.'

She had not moved from the position in which he had first caught sight of her. Now she smiled her faint, withdrawn smile, and with her hands still clasped lightly in front of her belt-buckle moved towards the door. She had a transcendental repose. Like a nun. Like a queen.

4

It was after luncheon before Sergeant Williams reappeared, breathless, bearing two fat volumes.

'You should have left them with the porter,' Grant said. 'I didn't mean you to come sweating up here with them.'

'I had to come up and explain.