She regarded the glowing tip of this latest cigarette with a vague look. ‘Why did I go? Yes … Why did I go? Because I was feeling masochistic? Or was I lonely?’ She seemed to be having a genuine debate with herself. ‘Or was it because nobody else had invited me out? No, that can’t be right, the sycophants never let up. So they must have, but because of the weather maybe I couldn’t … Oh. I know. I simply found myself at seven o’clock on New Year’s Eve in Oxford, on my own, and panicked. Yes, that must have been it. In those circumstances, I think one can be forgiven for attending even a Millie Vander party, don’t you?’ Her eyes opened wide in a challenging smile. ‘Also, of course, I wanted to be with people who would be so in awe of my talent and fame that they’d fawn on me like …’ She took a drag of her cigarette, tried to come up with some words, but shrugged instead.

Seeming to tire of the game, she sighed heavily. ‘Most likely I could see I was running out of booze and knew dear old Millie could be trusted at least to have ordered much, much champagne.’

She cocked her head to one side and regarded Trudy, quietly taking notes, then looked back at Clement. ‘Now I’m becoming intrigued. Let’s get on to the mystery, do,’ she appealed.

‘All right,’ Clement agreed amiably. ‘What can you tell us about the mysterious gate-crasher at the party?’

‘Oh her!’ the artist said, nodding her head admiringly. ‘Now we’re talking! Yes, she certainly had some nerve, that one,’ Katherine agreed, getting up and walking to the sideboard, where she reached inside and drew out a decanter of something pale and golden, still talking all the while. ‘She could have sold herself out as an artist’s model, even if she wasn’t exactly a teenage rose anymore. Good bone structure, and she had style, you know? Held herself well, walked well, and had a look in her eyes that would make you think twice. I can think of several men who’d have been panting to paint her. Malt?’ She jiggled the spirit bottle temptingly, but Clement merely smiled and shook his head.

She shrugged and poured herself a hefty slug into a chunky, cut-glass tumbler and brought the nearly full glass back to the chair. She then flung herself down in it again, without – miraculously – spilling a drop. ‘Of course, her clothes were handmade, but she made them look as if they’d come straight from Paris. It was clear as day that dear Millie had no idea who she was, and neither had anybody else.’

So David O’Connor had been right about that, at least, Clement mused. Millie had had an uninvited guest in her house that night.

‘Did you speak to her?’ he asked curiously.