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'Is it。。。？' she said。
'Worth its weight in gold；' I said flippantly； 'Yes。'
I carried the mugs back to the kitchen and returned to find her standing and smoothing her fingers over the piece of rag。
'An interior decorator；' I said； 'told me it was probably a modern copy of a hanging made in 1760 by 。。。 um 。。。 I think Phillipe de Lasalle。'
'How clever。 Yes； it is。 I made quite a lot of it at one time。' She paused； then said abruptly； 'e along；' and dived off again； leaving me to follow。
We went this time through a door in another white…painted partition and found ourselves in the north transept； her workroom。 There were three looms of varying construction； all bearing work in progress。 There was also a business section with filing cabinets and a good deal of office paraphernalia； and another area devoted to measuring； cutting and packing。
'I make fabrics you can't buy anywhere else；' she said。 'Most of it goes to the Middle East。' She walked towards the largest of the three looms； a monster that rose in steps to double our height。
'This is a Jacquard loom；' she said。 'I made your sample on this。'
'I was told this piece was 。。。 a lampas？ What's a lampas？'
She nodded。 'A lampas is a pound weave with extra warps and wefts which put patterns and colours on the face of the fabric only； and are tucked into the back。' She showed me how the design of ropes and branches of leaves gleamed on one side of the turquoise silk but hardly showed on the reverse。 'It takes ages to set up' she said。 'Nowadays almost no one outside the Middle East thinks the beauty is worth the expense； but once I used to sell quite a lot of it to castles and great houses in England； and all sorts of private people。 I only make it to order。'
I said neutrally； 'Would you know who you made this piece for？'
'My dear man。 No； I can't remember。 But I probably still have the records。 Why do you want to know？ Is it important？'
'I don't know if it is important。 I was given the strip and asked to find its origin。'
She shrugged。 'Let's find it then。 You never know； I might get an order for some more。'
She opened cupboard doors to reveal many ranks of box files； and ran her fingers along the labels on the spines until she came to one that her expression announced as possible。 She lifted the box file from the shelf and opened it on a table。
Inside were stiff pages with samples of fabric stapled to them； with full details of fibres； dates； amount made； names of purchasers and receipts。
She turned the stiff pages slowly； holding my strip in one hand for parison。 She came to several versions of the same design； but all in the wrong colour。
'That's it！' she exclaimed suddenly。 'That's the one。 I see I wove it almost thirty years ago。 How time flies。 I was so young then。 It was a hanging for a four…poster bed。 I see I supplied it with gold tassels made of gimp。'
I asked without much expectation； 'Who to？'
'It says here a Mrs Gordon Quint。'
I said； '。。。 Er 。。。' meaninglessly； my breath literally taken away。
Ginnie？ Ginnie had owned the material？
'I don't remember her or anything about it；' Trish Huxford said。 'But all the colours match。 It must have been this one mission。 I don't think I made these colours for anyone else。' She looked at the black stains disfiguring the strip I'd brought。 'What a pity！ I think of my fabrics as going on for ever。 They could easily last two hundred years。 I love the idea of leaving something beautiful in the world。 I expect you think I'm a sentimental old bag。'
'I think you're splendid；' I said truthfully； and asked； 'Why are you ex…directory； with a business to run？'
She laughed。 'I hate being interrupted when I'm setting up a design。 It takes vast concentration。 I have a mobile phone for friends…I can switch it off…and I have an agent in the Middle East who gets orders for me。 Why am I telling you all this？'
'I'm interested。'
She closed the file and put it back on the shelf； asking； 'Does Mrs Quint want some more fabric to replace this damaged bit； do you think？'
Mrs Quint was sixteen floors dead。
'I don't know；' I said。
On the drive back to London I pulled off the road to phone Davis Tatum at the number he'd given me； his home。
He was in and； it seemed； glad to hear from me； wanting to know what I'd done for him so far。
'Tomorrow；' I said； 'I'll give Topline Foods a visit。 Who did you get Owen Yorkshire's name from？'
He said； stalling； 'I beg your pardon？'
'Davis；' I said mildly； 'you want me to take a look at Owen Yorkshire and his pany； so why？ Why him？'
'I can't tell you。'
'Do you mean you promised not to； or you don't know？'
'I mean 。。。 just go and take a look。'
I said； 'Sir Thomas Ullaston； Senior Steward last year of the Jockey Club； told Archie Kirk about that little matter of the chains； and Archie Kirk told you。 So did the name Owen Yorkshire e to you from Archie Kirk？'
'Hell；'he said。
'I like to know what I'm getting into。'
After a pause he said； 'Owen Yorkshire has been seen twice in the boardroom of The Pump。 We don't know why。'
'Thank you；' I said。
'Is that enough？'
'To be going on with。 Oh； and my mobile phone is now safe。 No more leaks。 See you later。'
I drove on to London； parked in the underground garage and walked along the alleyway between tall houses that led into the opposite side of the square from my flat。
I was going quietly and cautiously in any case； and came to a dead stop when I saw that the street light almost directly outside my window was not lit。
Boys sometimes threw stones at it to break the glass。 Normally its darkness wouldn't have sent shudders up my spine and made my right arm remember Gordon Quint from fingers to neck。 Normally I might have crossed the square figuratively whistling while intending to phone in the morning to get the light fixed。
Things were not normal。
There were two locked gates into the central garden； one opposite the path I was on； and one on the far side； opposite my house。 Standing in shadow I sorted out the resident…allocated garden key； went quietly across the circling roadway and unlocked the near gate。
Nothing moved。 I eased the gate open； slid through； and closed it behind me。 No squeaks。 I moved slowly from patch to patch of shaded cover； the half…lit tree branches moving in a light breeze； yellow leaves drifting down like ghosts。
Near the far side I stopped and waited。
There could be no one there。 I was foolishly afraid over nothing。
The street light was out。
It had been out at other times 。。。
I stood with my back to a tree； waiting for alarm to subside to the point where I would unlock the second gate and cross the road to my front steps。 The sounds of the city were distant。 No cars drove into the cul…de…sac square。
I couldn't stand there all night； I thought 。。。 and then I saw him。
He was in a car parked by one of the few meters。 His head …unmistakably Gordon Quint's head…moved behind the window。 He was looking straight ahead； waiting for me to arrive by road or pavement。
I stood immobile as if stuck to the tree。 It had to be obsession with him； I thought。