Six people sit down to a sumptuous meal at a table laid for seven. In front of the empty place is a sprig of rosemary — "rosemary for remembrance." A strange sentiment considering no one is likely to forget the night, exactly a year ago, that Rosemary Barton died at exactly the same table, her beautiful face unrecognizable, convulsed with pain and horror.

But then Rosemary had always been memorable — she had the ability to arouse strong passions in most people she met. In one case, strong enough to kill. . .