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"But I'm afraid that would have been quite out of the question," the old man said. "Ever since that bomb, the old place has been in such a shaky condition, we've never felt able to take the risk of allowing a congregation inside. I'm at another church now, not far away, but I like to visit here from time to time to keep the organ in trim and so on." He sighed. "I suppose they'll sell the site one of these days."

"I noticed a gate in the wall leading into the garden of a house at the rear," Brady said. "Was that the vicarage?"

The old man shook his head. "No, that used to be the sexton's house." He pointed across to the house in Edgbaston Gardens. "That used to be the vicarage."

Brady tried to keep his voice steady. "I was having a drink in the pub round the corner and asking my way here. The landlord told me there was a shocking murder committed near the church some months ago."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," the priest said. "A dreadful affair. The victim was a young woman who had the upstairs apartment in the old vicarage. It was all most distressing."

"I'm sure it must have been," Brady said. He turned and looked across at the house. "There's one thing puzzles me. The sexton had a short-cut to the church through the gate in his garden wall, but you didn't. That must have been very inconvenient."

"Oh, but I did," the priest assured him. "You wouldn't notice it in the dark; in fact you'd have to look twice in daylight to see it. There's a gate set in the railings at the end of the garden. I was only noticing the other day, it's almost completely blocked with rhododendron bushes. I don't suppose it's been used for years."

"No, I don't suppose it has." They were back at the front of the church and Brady pulled up his collar against a sudden flurry of rain. "Well, I've imposed on your time for too long. I really must be going."

The old man smiled. "Not at all, it's been a pleasure talking to you. I'm only sorry you haven't got time to come back tomorrow."

Brady went down the path quickly and behind him, the door opened and closed again. The rain was falling softly through the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp as he turned into Edgbaston Square and mounted the steps to number two. He pressed the bell-push and waited.

Steps shuffled along the corridor inside and he could see a shadowy figure through the frosted glass. The door clicked and opened a few inches and an old woman looked out at him.

Her hair was drawn back in a tight, old-fashioned bun, the face old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging down on either side. It was a face he had seen before, peering from behind the door of the downstairs apartment on the night Marie Duclos was murdered.

He kept well back in the shadows. "Madame Rose?" he said.

She nodded. "That's right." Her voice was old and strangely lifeless, like dry, dead leaves whispering through a forest in the evening.

"I wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time?"

"You wish to consult the stars?"

He nodded. "That's right. I was told you could help me."

"I only take clients by appointment, young man," she said. "I have to be very careful. The police are most strict in these matters."

"I'm only in London for a brief visit," he told her, keeping to the same formula. "I'm flying out in the morning."

She sighed. "Oh, very well, but I can only spare you half an hour. I'm expecting a visitor."

The hall was gloomy and oak-panelled. He waited for her to close the door and when she turned and looked up at him she frowned slightly. "Your face seems strangely familiar. Are you sure we've never met?"

"I'm an American," he said. "This is my first visit to England."

"I must be mistaken."

She led the way along the corridor, pulled back a dark velvet drape and opened a heavy door.

The room into which they entered was strangely subdued, cut-off from the street by heavy curtains, the only light a single lamp on a small table. There was a fake electric log fire in the hearth and the room was unpleasantly warm.