“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“The first week of December.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

And Rosamund Abara, who had spent five years being unfailingly deferential in that house, turned off the burner and set the pan down and looked at him.

“I did, sir.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

“On the ninth of December,” she said, “I asked your assistant for fifteen minutes.