There was nothing from the private detective, which disappointed her until she remembered that he had had only about thirteen of the twenty-four hours he had said he would need, most of them at dead of night. Reading the letters, she drank the superb coffee Mrs Rusham had made and ate a little of the grilled bacon. They had nothing to say to each other that could be safely said, and so they kept their own counsel. As soon as she had finished breakfast, Willow retreated into her lettuce-green writing room to work. She tried to ring Serena Fydgett but was told that she was not in chambers. ‘Are you expecting her?’ Willow asked the clerk. ‘Not today,’ he said politely enough. ‘I’m anxious to get in touch with her. She came to see me yesterday and there’s more we have to discuss. I never asked her for her home telephone number and now I find it’s exdirectory.’ ‘I…’ began the clerk, but Willow hurried on.
