‘Oh, come on through to the morning room,’ Millie said with a slightly petulant sigh, turning and heading to the second door on the right. Here, the curtains were still drawn, and she went straight to the window to let in some light. The room was square, the walls painted a duck-egg blue. A large gilt oval mirror reflected the room back at them over a marble fireplace. The air smelt faintly of cigarette smoke. A large sheepskin rug lay in front of a small walnut coffee table and a two-seater settee. If any of last night’s party had overspilled into this room, it had either been cleaned in the interim, or else the guests had been very well behaved.

‘Please, take a seat,’ Millie said, indicating the Queen-Anne-style settee and chairs. Clement chose the sturdiest-looking chair, and Trudy another. After a moment’s hesitation, their hostess chose the two-seater settee and settled herself in it. She tossed one silk-clad leg over the other. On her feet were backless mules, fluffy with dyed black feathers. With her unbound long red hair and exotic (to Trudy) outfit, she looked a bit like one of the stars of the silver screen from a decade or two ago. She should, Trudy thought cynically, ideally be holding a cigarette holder, and saying something witty.

Instead, she looked wary and unhappy. Her green eyes danced around the room, seemingly unable to settle.

‘So, what time did your party break up last night?’ Trudy asked, getting out her notebook. The sight of such officialdom made Millie go slightly pale under her face powder, and her brows puckered.

‘Everyone had left by around one o’clock, because of the awful snow, of course. People were worried they might not get back … Look, do you mind telling me just what this is all in aid of?’ she said, definitely petulant now. She jogged her loose foot in the air in agitation, the ridiculous slipper threatening to fall off.

‘I’m sorry to say that we have reason to believe that one of your guests was the victim of a fatal accident last night,’ Trudy began gently. ‘You don’t happen to have a guest list, do you?’

Millie abruptly uncrossed her legs and leaned forward on the settee. ‘Who?’ she cried, her face growing ever more pale now. ‘Who died?’

‘Did you invite a man named Terrence Parker to your party, Mrs Vander?’ Trudy asked gently.

And then she watched, stunned, as the pretty green eyes rolled back in the woman’s head, and the petite figure of her witness pitched forward and landed with a graceful fold onto the sheepskin rug.