Both Joseph and Stephen were glad to get away from the scene of the crime, and they led the Inspector downstairs to the morning-room, leaving the photographer, the finger-print experts, and the ambulance-men in possession.

The morning-room fire had been allowed to go out, and the room felt chilly. The Inspector said that it was of no consequence, and he would be obliged to question everyone in the house. Joseph gave a groan, and ejaculated: ‘Those poor young people! If they could have been spared this horror!’

The Inspector did not waste his breath answering this; he knew his duty, and he had no time to spare for irrelevancies. He should have been filling his children’s stockings by right, not taking depositions at Lexham Manor. It wasn’t as though the case was likely to do him much good, he reflected. He wasn’t the Detective-Inspector, but merely deputising for that gentleman, who was in bed with influenza. The Chief Constable, a nervous man, would be bound to call in Scotland Yard, he thought, and some smart London man would get all the credit for the case. He waited for Joseph to lower the hand with which he had covered his eyes before saying: ‘Now, sir, if you please! I understand you have a number of guests staying in the house? If I might have their names?’

‘Our Christmas party!’ Joseph said tragically.

‘We shall at least be spared your rollicking festivities,’ Stephen said.

The Inspector glanced at him rather narrowly. That was a queer way to speak of his uncle’s murder, he thought. It didn’t do to set too much store by what people said in moments of shock, but if he were asked he would be bound to admit that he hadn’t taken a fancy to young Herriard, not by a long chalk.

Joseph caught his glance, and rushed to Stephen’s support. ‘My nephew’s very much upset,’ he said. ‘It’s been a dreadful blow – and I’m afraid the modern youth makes a point of hiding its feelings under a mask of flippancy.’

Stephen grimaced, but allowed this explanation to pass without comment. He dived a hand into his pocket for his pipe and his tobacco-pouch, and began to fill the pipe, while Joseph told the Inspector about the other guests.

Joseph had a kind word for everybody. Roydon was a most promising playwright, a great friend of his niece. The niece? Ah yes! this young man’s sister: an actress, and quite her poor dead uncle’s favourite. Then there was Miss Dean – a smile towards Stephen – his nephew’s fiancée. He might say that this party had really been arranged on her account. She had never stayed with them before, and they had so much wanted to get to know her. Miss Clare, too! a cousin, quite a persona grata in the house. Remained only Edgar Mottisfont, Nathaniel’s partner, and close friend for many years. There were, of course, the servants, but he was quite sure none of them could have had anything to do with the murder.