They talked lightly but confidentially until Sir John approached them with a slight frown upon his face. There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. “It was a phase,” she said. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. ’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. I’ve just seen him.
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