Although her mother had protested loudly over the cat’s presence in Nolan’s bedroom, Jacquie had been firm. Metternich was not allowed in there as a matter of course, only when he and Nolan had stuff to discuss and, if ever there was a cat who wouldn’t sleep on a child’s face, then that cat was the Count. Far too uncomfortable. The nose, for one thing, would be bound to stick in somewhere and the dribble would mat his coat. So, the cat stayed. Maxwell, meanwhile, no less sweetly smelling, was ensconced in his favourite chair and half watching the news. He liked this time of day and even the addition of Jacquie’s mother couldn’t spoil it. The architect had played a blinder on 38 Columbine. The evening sun slanted in through the windows of the first-floor sitting room and gilded the walls and ceiling with mellow light and warmth. At this point of the year, where summer slid slowly into autumn, and the sun was lower in the sky, it fell on Maxwell’s chair and he knew how birds must feel, taking a sunbath.
