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He glanced up at Roding and met his eyes. “It’s odd,” said Ann Veronica, re-entering the flat. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. “But, forgive me, you are tired. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. I knew where I would go next: Florence. Bring the link. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. He was caressing an idea.
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