‘I’m sorry!’ apologised the Sergeant.

‘So I should think. It was the ham,’ said Hemingway.

The inmates of the Manor were, accordingly, left to their own devices, if not to peace. Peace did not flourish under the same roof as Mrs Dean, and by the time she had bullied Joseph, Mottisfont, Roydon, and her own daughter into playing paper-games, and had driven both the young Herriards and Mathilda into taking refuge in the billiard-room, an atmosphere of even greater unrest pervaded the household.

Christmas dinner, with all the associations which turkey and plum-pudding conjured up, inspired Maud to remark that she wished Nathaniel had not been murdered at such an awkward time, because although it seemed almost heartless to eat Christmas fare there was nothing else to be done, since there it was, and would only go bad if left. She added that they had better not set light to the pudding this year; and Sturry, approving this decree, added his mite towards the drive for sobriety by removing the sprig of holly from the pudding.

Everyone went to bed early, but no one looked next morning as though the long night’s rest had been of much benefit. Mottisfont said several times that he could not think what the police were hanging fire for, by which observation he was understood to mean that he thought Stephen ought by this time to have been in the County gaol. Valerie said that she had hardly closed her eyes all night, on account of the ghastly dreams which had haunted her. Roydon looked pale, and wondered audibly when the police would allow them all to go home.

Breakfast was not served until nine o’clock, and before anyone had reached the toast-and-marmalade stage, Sturry entered, rather in the manner of a Greek chorus, to announce the arrival of doom in the person of Inspector Hemingway. The Inspector, he said with relish, would like to have a Word with Mr Stephen.

The inside of Mathilda’s mouth felt dry suddenly and the muscles of her throat unpleasantly constricted. Joseph drew in his breath sharply.

‘He might have let me finish my breakfast,’ said Stephen, laying down his napkin. ‘Where is he?’

‘I showed the Inspector into the library, sir.’

‘All right,’ Stephen said, and got up.

Paula thrust back her chair, and rose, in one of her jerky, impetuous movements. ‘I’m coming with you!’ she said abruptly.

‘Get on with your breakfast: I don’t want you,’ Stephen said.

‘I don’t care a damn what you want!’ she said. ‘I’m your sister, aren’t I?’

He took her by the shoulders, and thrust her into her chair again. ‘Get this, and get it good!’ he said roughly. ‘You’re to keep out of this!’

‘There’s no more reason for him to suspect you than me! Uncle accused me of wanting to murder him, not you!’

‘You keep your misguided trap shut,’ said Stephen. ‘You’re a good kid, but boneheaded.’ His sardonic gaze flickered over the other members of the house-party, taking in Joseph’s look of misery, Mathilda’s white rigidity, the thinly-veiled satisfaction in Mottisfont’s eyes, the relief in Roydon’s. He gave a short laugh, and went out.