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“Yes—John—aaah, there he is.” She beamed and walked toward a door on the far side of the room. “Hello, my lovely—and look who’s here to see you. It’s your Auntie Ana.”

Ana put down her rucksack and started walking toward where Amy stood.

“Careful,” she said, “go gentle. He’s very nervous.”

Ana peered around the corner of a shiny round table laden with silver-framed photos. And there, in the corner of the room, crouched down with his front paws tucked tightly in toward his body and his eyes wide open in terror, sat the most beautiful cat Ana had ever seen in her life. He was huge and cobby with a big square face, thick silver-blue fur, and bright copper-orange eyes.

“Hello, beautiful,” she said, moving toward him very slowly with one hand outstretched. His ears flattened against his large skull and he backed himself further into the corner.

“It’s all right, little one—I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Goodness only knows what the poor mite’s been through these last few weeks. He must have run away when Bee went, with the shock of it. I should imagine he’s been down there, in among the bins, ever since.”

“No,” said Ana, “Mr. Arif made Bee get rid of him. He was staying with a friend of hers and he escaped through a window. About three weeks ago.”

“And this friend was living where?”

“Ladbroke Grove.”

Amy looked startled and put a hand to her turtlenecked chest. “But that’s nearly three miles away. You mean to tell me that this little man found his way all the way from there to here? On his own?”

Ana put her finger a few inches from John’s nose. He ignored it at first, but then tentatively stretched his head forward and took a little sniff. “It certainly looks that way.”

“My goodness,” said Amy, “that really is quite incredible. What intrepidity. What pluck. What spunk! He’s a real hero.”

Ana gently moved her finger across the cat’s cheek and gave him a little tickle. He closed his eyes and started purring.

“He was in a terrible state when Mr. Whitman found him. Filthy and half-starved. I took him to the vet yesterday and they gave him a clean bill of health. He had a few scratches and scrapes, and he’s somewhat underweight, but apart from that he’s in the pink of feline health.”

“I can’t believe he’s here,” said Ana in wonder, stroking his chin. “He’s so beautiful.” And he really was. It wasn’t just his physical appearance—there really was something special about him. Ana could immediately understand why her sister had been so devoted to him. And then she felt a tear start to work its way out of her left eye as she thought of Bee’s note and her guilt and sadness about losing John, and imagined Bee’s face now if she were to walk into the room and see John here, John who squeezed through a four-inch gap in a window and walked three miles across London to find her.

“I’d been trying to get in touch with you, you know. Frantically. I even phoned the terrible Mr. Arif but he was supremely unhelpful. How did Mr. Whitman manage to track you down?”

Ana looked at her in surprise. “He didn’t.”

“So—how did you know?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I just came to see you. I didn’t have a phone number for you and I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Amy’s face pinkened with pleasure. “Really,” she said, “you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes. I’ve…”

Amy put out a hand up to stop her. “Tea,” she said, “let me get some tea first. Then we can have a nice chat.”

Ana curled herself up in a ball on the floor and talked to John while Amy rattled around in the kitchen. He was more relaxed now and rolled over onto his back and mewed at her. “What?” said Ana. “What d’you want?” She put a hand on his big fluffy tummy and rubbed it. And then he straightened himself out and gave himself a quick hard scratch behind the ears before climbing up onto Ana’s lap and settling himself down for a snooze. Ana picked him up gently and took him to the sofa. She sniffed the top of his head while she carried him. He smelled of fresh air.

“Good Lord,” said Amy, coming back into the room with a tea tray, “will you look at that? He’s barely moved from that corner since I brought him back from the vet and now look at him. He must sense it,” she said, “sense your relationship to Bee. Milk? Sugar?”

Ana rubbed John’s neck and chin as Amy poured tea, and he purred loud and hard. “So—what can I do for you?” She passed Ana a minuscule teacup of bone china so thin it felt like fiberglass.

“Well, we’ve got the coroner’s report back, on Bee, and it’s official, I’m afraid. Suicide.”

Amy gasped and clutched her chest.