Perfect linen, perfect tea, perfect scones: afternoon in a private room of Oxford's finest tearoom. The women gathered there are intelligent and confident. That they know they wield power shows in their faces and in the way they move. The majority is in what statistically would be the second half of life, but in no way can it be said that they are past their prime. They are calm, elegant, sophisticated. Most of them know one another, but not all. The ones who know the greatest number size up the newcomers. Is she one of us? Is she trying to take an advantage where one is not due? Is she someone I should get to know? These women have familiar names, names many men in Oxford would recognize. And they know their own kind. They are the Oxford Area Philanthropic Women.

Jean Innocent smiles an acknowledgement across the room to Dr. Laura Hobson. They have known each other for almost ten years, not a long acquaintance compared to many represented here. Jean recognizes several other women as well. Professor Margaret Gold has been an Oxford don for decades; Naomi Norris is also employed by the university, having already been a well-established librarian at the Bodleian when Jean arrived in Oxford. And Jean knows that, like herself and Laura, many of the women have other, non-university employers or are self-employed, and several don't need employment income to maintain their upscale lifestyles. Trudi Griffon married into money, probably came from it as well. Jessamine Matthews also came from money, enough to fund her art gallery as well as her husband's expensive tastes. Frances Wheeler, although single, has no apparent need for the secure income a regular job provides; her work at the Ashmolean is all voluntary. And Denise Stillman recently retired from a lucrative position in the field of international air transport; her husband, also recently retired, had held a top-drawer position at The Guardian.

Laura Hobson smiles a greeting at Denise when she catches her eye. The pathologist isn't entirely certain what Denise's career involved, but Laura has enjoyed her engaging stories about entertaining Russians in her home and having friends all over the world, and she likes the funny, gracious, and down-to-earth woman. She recognizes the lawyer, Nova Rose, who has raised hackles in the legal community with her vociferous defense of down-and-outs. Laura appreciates the sentiment but is not certain she appreciates Nova's forward and flirtatious demeanor. And although she abhors the smugness that some women bring to these gatherings, that doesn't override the delight she derives from meeting with other women who bash their heads against the glass ceiling, who dominate their professions despite the efforts of men to keep them in the lower echelons, and who share a wicked sense of humor that might be considered inappropriate in certain circles. She smiles to herself as her gaze takes in the roomful.

Professor Gold, one of the group's original organizers, calls the assembly to order. They are here to listen to the needs of several nonprofit groups and to then each award a check in the amount of £100 to the organization considered to be most meritorious, based on popular vote of the assembled women. Given the fact that well over one hundred women are attending the assembly, the meeting will result in the selected group realizing a gain of over £10,000, no small matter to the typically underfunded, philanthropic organizations attending the quarterly get-together of the OAPW.

As Professor Gold introduces the nonprofits that will be making presentations, Laura is bumped by a latecomer.

"Sorry! Mind if I just squeeze in here?" Laura recognizes the speaker from a case a number of years back. A few moments of pinched brow and she places the blonde—the sleep laboratory . . . Kate Something-or-other, the sleep lab director. Some literary reference . . . Hyde? . . . No, Jekyll—Doctor Jekyll. She recalls the amusement she felt at the name. And she remembers, with a touch of resentment, that the woman had a more-than-usual personal interest in DI Robbie Lewis.

Laura refrains from all of the retorts available to her and simply scoots her chair over a couple of inches, smiling artificially.

"Of course." Then she narrows her eyes. "It's Kate, isn't it? Kate . . . I'm sorry, I'm no good with names." She adds a helpless expression she does not feel. She is, in fact, very good with names.

"Jekyll," her rival supplies.

"Right. Laura Hobson." She smiles as though she means it. But she doesn't. Laura remembers her, alright. She made a play for Robbie that he rebuffed. She struggles to keep her true feelings from her expression—disdain with a touch of smugness.

But Kate studies her intensely, at last recognizing the artifice in Laura's smile. "Ah," Kate nods. "You like him." Without explaining whom she means by "him," she dips her gaze a second, then meets Laura's eyes fully. A challenge. Or knowledge of a private victory? Laura has never questioned Robbie about that relationship. Wouldn't presume to do so. Regardless of what happened then, nothing ever developed, and Laura is secure in her supposition that Kate Jekyll is not a part of Robbie's present life.

The tension is dispersed by the interruption of a waitress bringing tea around to all the tables. "Do you need anything?" she asks. The question is not meant as an unlimited invitation to persons who have suffered dissatisfaction but rather a mere inquiry into the supply of milk, sugar, and lemon. The woman smiles conspiratorially. "Last call before the presentations."


"Now, Darling, do keep your temper." David Cleveland gives a smile he does not himself believe to his girlfriend and lover, Hypatia Banfield-Knight. David lacks sufficient chin to be called handsome, though his large blue eyes provide distraction from this flaw. Hypatia, in contrast, is a stunner, and she is drawing stares and causing men to glare enviously at David as they walk together along Braesnose Lane toward the Radcliffe Camera. They are both in their last year at university, though Hypatia is a year younger than David.

Hypatia walks briskly; it is all David can do to keep up. He is wary of her capacity for fury; he's been the victim of it before. Often, he can cool her down with endearments and promises, and he suspects his coddling of her is what keeps her by his side. But this time he is not successful.

"He's a wanker!" She's shouting at the top of her lungs. "A fuck! Whoever strokes him the best, that's who gets his favor!" She glowers, and her voice drops precipitously, giving David a chill. "And despite whatever you might think, I don't wank him."

David has to explore this. "A wanker? He's married, isn't he?"

"Not an absolute bar, you know. But I wouldn't touch him. Nor will I stroke his ego, which is pretty much the same thing as his prick."

David needs to clarify the situation. "So, what did he do to you, Darling?"

She stares, incredulous. "You don't get it, do you?" Seeing his blank response, she continues. "Do you even remember me getting that letter this morning? Do you even—" she inhales deeply—"remember?" Her eyes alone could cause grievous bodily harm. They narrow now, lethally.

He fears a physical assault; it's happened before whenever Hypatia is wound up enough. She's cost him a fair amount of blood and even broken one of his toes. Oh, yes, he remembers the letter. And the explosion that followed when Hypatia learned she had not been accepted into the university's graduate study program in music.

"Of course I do, Darling. And it's Bishop's fault you didn't get in? Why would he do that to you? Just because you won't suck him or something? Can't be; he's never even asked you. It's obvious you're being snubbed because your talent threatens him." He's guessing though. Walter Bishop, senior fellow of music—department chairman, even—is, according to Hypatia, thoroughly susceptible to the sexual bung. David is skeptical, but wants nothing less than to disagree with the livid young woman walking by his side.

When she doesn't answer, he turns his head to study her. Eyes narrowed, lips thin, hands balled into fists. Predatorial. He shivers.

"Someone should take him out," she mutters, barely audible. Then her eyes snap to his, and he is helpless to defend himself by looking away.

"If you really loved me, David, you'd prove it. You'd take care of that bastard." Her stare is intended to ensure that he receives her meaning.

"You mean . . ." David swallows. Twice. "Kill him?"

"Would you make me do it myself?" Hypatia's eyes bore into his, but her lips form a wolfish grin, complete with small, pointed teeth. "Do you love me?" She places his hand on her right breast and pulls his mouth to hers, hungry in more than one way.

Breathless, he ignores her incongruous question. He knows what he has to do.


The office of DI Robert Lewis and DS James Hathaway is studiously quiet. The two men work at their desks, James clicking around his computer and Robbie reviewing paperwork. Things are winding up on a Friday afternoon, and both men are hoping for a quiet weekend.

There's a light rapping on the door, and their supervisor, Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent, steps into the office without waiting for an invitation.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." She smiles brightly. Lewis shoots a glance at Hathaway before turning his attention to the Chief Super. This will be trouble, is the look the younger man reads.

She continues warmly. "Robbie, I need you to do me a huge favor tomorrow. I'm a member of a charitable women's group in town and tomorrow is the annual progressive piano concert that we co-sponsor with the university's music department." Seeing his brow pinch, she explains.

"You've heard of progressive dinners, haven't you?"

He squints one eye. "That's where you have starters at one house, then the next course at another house, and so on until you get to pudding or else until everyone is too drunk to drive, whichever comes first, right?"

She looks bemused. "Precisely. Only this is a progressive piano concert. At each venue, different pieces are played and nibbles and drinks are served. There are four concert sites in all, and my house is one of them." She continues without giving either of them the chance to interrupt. "Mister Innocent has been called out of town unexpectedly and unavoidably, and—" she ignores the dismay that washes over Lewis's face as he anticipates what will come next "—hosting the concert is a daunting enough task for two people, and nearly impossible for one."

Robbie inhales and exhales, both deeply. "And why are you telling me this?"

"I need someone to help me tomorrow, and I am hoping you'll be kind enough to do so."

"What about Hathaway?"

"I thought he might like to attend the concert, whereas, if you don't help me, I imagine you'll spend the time closeted away by yourself, doing whatever it is you do when you're alone on the weekends."

"I happen to like being closeted away by meself."

She cocks her head, looking at him with a cross between pleading and ordering. "Well?"

He sighs. Despite his outward protest, he secretly rather delights in being dragged to things he knows he will enjoy but can't overcome his own inertia enough to go on his own. It was only during the last few years he had worked with Morse that he finally learned this about himself. But he will never admit it, even if pressed.

"Well, maybe I'm thinking about going, taking a guest along or something."

Her eyes narrow menacingly, her mouth in a line. "Laura's hosting, too; she won't be able to attend as a concertgoer."

Lewis clenches, knowing he's been caught all around. Innocent has the grace to look away, to look as though she'd almost accepted his excuse as truthful.

He heaves a big sigh. Lewis knows when to fold 'em, in the words of the song. He doesn't stand a chance against Innocent in this matter.

"Tell me what I need to do, Ma'am." Resigned.


"So, you're going to this concert thing because you want to?" Lewis is unable to keep the incredulity from his voice. They are sitting in the Trout, sipping pints after a long week's work.

"It'll be nice." Hathaway snaps a smirky grin at Lewis. "I think I'll enjoy myself. I've heard that the music can be quite good. The pianists are a mix of professionals and student participants from last year's competition." He notes Lewis's blank look. "It's a contest sponsored jointly by the university music department and the OAPW. This concert is a fundraiser for next year's competition's prize money. The students range widely in age. There are some seven-year-olds competing who have more knowledge of classical music than you do, Sir."

Lewis turns away with a snort. He's done with Hathaway's smug wind-up and superior attitude, but he declines making an express challenge. Sod him. Always with the "Sir" when he's being mean.

James feels a bit chastised. He didn't intend to be hurtful; no way did he expect Lewis to have so little self-confidence about his more-than-adequate grasp of classical music. And he recognizes that, by turning away rather than retorting, Lewis has dialed down the potential confrontation between them. He touches Lewis's elbow for a half-second. "Sorry, Sir. You ready for another round?"

Robbie's eyes flick to him, discerning his credibility. Satisfied, he nods, once. They are right again.


They aren't the only ones thinking about the concert. Less than a mile away, in a clutttered and dimly lit narrowboat, an aging but still rakishly handsome man leans back in a comfortable chair and spreads open the evening's newspaper. He is dressed in a rather worn, green crewneck jumper, the collar of a blue shirt peeking from underneath; smudged chino trousers; and hard-soled moccasins, without socks. He pages through the paper slowly, then peers closely to read the small print of an announcement describing a piano concert. Four sequential venues are identified. The first is the University's Holywell Music Room; the other three are private homes. The man smiles to himself, takes a long swig directly from a half-empty bottle of cheap gin, belches quietly, and rubs a hand over his bristled chin. He recognizes one of the hosting homeowners' names. His hand slides down his neck, over the front of his jumper, and settles on his groin. So Laura Hobson is opening her home to the public. Alec Pickman's smile widens as he chuckles aloud, and his hand begins to move with a slow rhythm, fondling the folds of his trousers. A piano concert might be very pleasureable.