“Come on in. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. She made a curious movement toward her niece, then suddenly, convulsively, she dabbed down something lumpy on the table and turned to follow her brother. ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. Lucy slept in the same room as Shari, only ten feet away. He spoke the automatic thought that entered his mind. It makes no difference.
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