Lindy had a lovely voice. It rose into the summer darkness clear and true as a nightingale; or was it, rather, like a bird of prey? Rosamund wakes up from her mid-morning nap to find, to her delight, that she is running a temperature. Surely that explains her blinding headache, and the weird, delirious dream in which she had murdered her overly seductive neighbour - the Other Woman - in a vengeful act of jealousy? A great relief, then, to find this was merely the nightmarish work of a fevered imagination. Until her husband exclaims, 'Rosamund! Have you any idea what's happened to Lindy? She's disappeared!.'