Eleanor couldn’t decide if it was naturally black and had gone white in patches, or whether it had gone white naturally and an unsuccessful attempt had been made to dye it black. Or perhaps it was a wig, a very peculiar one, though she’d seen much stranger fashions in obscure parts of the world: lengthened necks, stretched lips, bound feet, scarified faces and chests. If Mr Hobbes wanted to wear a small, shaggy dog on his head, then let him. She’d stick to a dab of lipstick. Young people these days seemed to manage without lipstick, she mused, or used the palest shades. Heavy mascara was popular, though, along with vast quantities of eyeshadow. “Would you mind, Mrs Trewynn,” said DI Scumble in his exaggeratedly patient voice, “opening the safe, since Mr Hobbes has come some distance to examine the contents. You do recall the combination, I trust?” Eleanor gave him a speaking look and turned to the safe.
