At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy. Emile looked at her, then down, and clearly caught the bright gleam on the floor. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. Teenagers buzzed about her newly discovered talent for the violin in the same sentences as they gossiped about her torrid police scandal and a lost mother who remained in the deep shadows of murder mystery. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. ‘Suzanne, if I may say, had also not the choice.
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