‘You’d better have a bloody good reason for disturbing me, no matter if you do look and sound like James Mason,’ she warned him flatly, standing aside to let them pass.

Clement seemed to take the compliment in his stride, and Trudy briefly wondered if the coroner even knew who James Mason was. Did he ever watch films? Would he be flattered at being compared to a movie star?

‘Is death and disaster, mystery and the pursuit of prurient gossip a good enough reason?’ he asked her mildly.

The artist again gave him another approving glance.

Realising that this was going to be one of those ‘sophisticated’ affairs that she could never quite get the hang of, Trudy was happy to settle down and play second fiddle this time. Let Clement flirt and enjoy himself – she was no spoilsport!

‘Hmph,’ the artist said, but her lips twitched in a grudging smile. ‘You’ve intrigued me. Well, you might as well sit down,’ she said gracelessly, indicating the chairs that were littered haphazardly around the large, white living room into which she’d shown them. A window overlooking the street and a large weeping silver birch tree that was growing in the garden of the house opposite, lent a suitably ‘artistic’ view of the city and some of the ‘dreaming spires’ in that part of town.

Their hostess literally threw herself into a rather scruffy-looking black leather wingback chair that creaked at the mistreatment. In front of the chair was a low coffee table all but overflowing with stuff: a poinsettia (bright red and already wilting due to lack of water), magazines, empty coffee cups, and a large leather handbag that looked stuffed to the gills with items. There were also three packets of cigarettes, all of them open, a large table lighter in the shape of an eagle, and a large onyx ashtray brimming over with ash and stubbed-out cigarettes. There was one slipper in pink satin scuffed at the toe, some nutcrackers and a bowl of walnuts and various pens with their tops off. There was even, Trudy noticed with a grimace, a copy of the Oxford Tribune, opened at the crossword page.

‘Well – where do we start?’ Katherine Morton demanded, reaching for one of the cigarette packets and lighting one up. She vaguely offered the packet to them, shrugging when they both declined. ‘Is it to be death, mystery, gossip or what-have-you first?’ She lifted her head slightly to blow the smoke towards the ceiling. Her fingertips were yellow and nicotine-stained and she tapped one bare foot on the floor in a vigorous tempo without, apparently, having any idea that she did so.

Clement noticed that the walls were conspicuously bare of any paintings at all – either her own creations or anyone else’s. Obviously, the painter liked to be free of artistry when she was relaxing in her own private living room.