CHAPTER ONE<br >It was nine o clock on a Wednesday morning in May， and<br >Andrew Basnett， who had been out late the evening before<br >and had overslept， was in his kitchen， dressed in pyjamas， his<br >dressing gown and a pair of socks， and was making coffee for<br >his breakfast when the doorbell rang.<br > Assuming that it was the p.ostman， trying to deliver a pack-<br >age that would not go throdgh the letter box， Andrew went<br >to the door and opened it.<br > It was not the postman. 12 was Andrew s old friend and<br >colleague Professor Constance Camm， F.R.S.， whom it was<br >very surprising to find at his door at that hour of the morning.<br > Now that she was retired， she lived with her sister in the<br >village of Lindleham in Berkshire， and on the occasions when<br >she wanted to meet Andrew， usually made careful arrange-<br >ments by telephone several days beforehand. She would<br >then probably invite him to lunch with her at her club， or<br >after some persuasion might allow him to take her out to<br >lunch at one of his favourite Soho restaurants. She had only<br >rarely visited the fiat in St. John s Wood， where he lived， and<br >then never at such an early hour.<br > He felt embarrassed on seeing her， not only because she<br >had caught him in pyjamas and dressing gown and still un-<br >shaven， but mostly because he was without slippers. When he<br >was alone in his fiat he usually padded about it in his socks，<br >leaving his slippers wherever it had occurred to him to kick<br >them off. Today they were on the rug in the middle of his<br >sitting room， and the first thing that he did on bringing her<br ><br >