Mrs. Oliver sat on the bus, catching her breath as she replayed the reckless pursuit she had just undertaken. What had begun as a spur-of-the-moment decision had left her utterly drained. The man she had whimsically dubbed “The Peacock” moved with a briskness that far outpaced her own, and Mrs. Oliver had never been known for her speed. Even so, she doggedly maintained a safe distance of about twenty yards, following him along the Embankment.

At Sloane Square, he descended into the underground, and she followed. When he transferred to a bus, she found a seat three or four rows behind him. Finally, he alighted at a place that seemed aptly named “The World’s End,” and she did the same. She trailed him through the labyrinthine alleys near King’s Road, where derelict buildings and chaotic construction sites dominated the landscape. As she began to lose her bearings, a voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts:

“I trust my pace hasn’t been too challenging for you.”

Startled, she spun around to find “The Peacock” standing behind her. His tone was polite, but there was an unmistakable edge of menace beneath the civility. A chill ran down Mrs. Oliver’s spine. What had felt like a playful adventure now seemed fraught with danger. The empty streets around her suddenly made London’s bustling crowds feel worlds away.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she sank onto a nearby garbage bin and adopted a self-deprecating tone. “Goodness, you gave me a fright! I thought this was just a little experiment, but it seems I’ve upset you.”

“You’ve been following me?” The man’s voice carried a mix of incredulity and disdain.

“Yes, I admit it,” Mrs. Oliver said candidly. “I can see how that might annoy you, but really, there’s no need to be angry. I’m a writer—an author of detective novels, to be precise—and today I was feeling restless. I decided to conduct some research, purely for professional purposes. When I saw you, I thought you’d make a fascinating subject. My apologies if I’ve inconvenienced you.”

The man’s piercing blue eyes held hers, cold and calculating, though his posture seemed to relax slightly. “And why, pray tell, did you choose me?”

“Well, you’re impossible to ignore,” Mrs. Oliver replied earnestly. “Your attire is so striking, like a gentleman from the Regency era—positively theatrical.”

His expression softened, tinged with curiosity. “You’ve written books? Published?”

“Oh yes, forty-three novels,” she said proudly. “Ariadne Oliver. You may have heard of me.”

“I have,” the man said, nodding, though his tone carried a faint trace of derision. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Mrs. Oliver admitted, “but seeing you dining with that young woman earlier struck me as oddly familiar.”

“Norma Restarick,” he said abruptly, his voice sharp with probing intent.

Feigning a moment of thought, Mrs. Oliver replied, “Ah, perhaps I’ve seen her at some country gathering. The name does sound vaguely familiar.”

The man scrutinized her in silence before finally saying, “Come with me.” He gestured toward a rickety staircase leading to an upper floor.

Mrs. Oliver hesitated but followed, her nerves taut with a mix of apprehension and curiosity. The stairs led to a converted artist’s studio, its floor littered with canvases and mattresses. The air was heavy with the scent of turpentine and linseed oil. A scruffy, bearded young artist stood at an easel, painting with feverish intensity. Beside him posed a model, whom Mrs. Oliver immediately recognized as one of the tenants from Borodene Mansions.

“This is Peter, our artist,” the man said. “And that’s Frances. She’s playing the role of a tragic heroine.”

Mrs. Oliver quickly regained her composure and smiled. “What an intriguing place! It reminds me of the bohemian studios in so many novels.” Her lighthearted tone seemed to ease the tension in the room.

After a few minutes of pleasantries, she excused herself, citing fatigue. The man, ever the gentleman, helped her down the precarious stairs and pointed her toward King’s Road. Mrs. Oliver thanked him with a smile before briskly walking away. Yet as she traversed the desolate construction site, the uneasy feeling crept back into her mind.

As she approached a narrow alley by the river, hurried footsteps sounded behind her. She turned just in time to feel a searing pain before everything went black.