There were more cars parked outside The Lookout, but none of them had any police markings. The front door was open and we walked straight into the three rooms, which still hadn’t been reassembled. Someone had cleared away all the plates and glasses but the furniture hadn’t been moved back into place and there was a sense of emptiness, heightened by the fact that the man who had designed and created all this had been permanently taken from it. Colin and Judith Matheson were already there waiting for us, along with a third man who had not been at the party and who was introduced to us as Dr Queripel.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Hawthorne,’ Matheson began. I had never seen a man more out of his depth. It was as if he had no idea why he had been summoned here and, worse than that, no idea what to do. His wife was sitting in an armchair, as white as the pearls around her neck, clutching a ball of tissue in her fist. She didn’t look as if she had been crying, though. If anything, she looked angry.

‘I didn’t know if it was right to call you or not, and you may consider it an impertinence – but this couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ Colin began. ‘There’s no good time for it to have happened, but what I mean is that, unfortunately, two of our constables are on holiday and the third, Sergeant Wilkins, is in bed with a bad back. To be honest, I think this would be beyond his pay grade anyway. We’ve sent for backup from Guernsey and there are two officers on their way, but in the meantime I thought it sensible to get at least some sort of investigation started. Strike while the iron is hot, so to speak.’

‘You did exactly the right thing,’ Hawthorne assured him. He turned to the doctor. ‘You examined the body?’

‘It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,’ Dr Queripel replied. He was in his thirties with fair hair that was already thinning and a lean face. He looked thoroughly decent in his old-fashioned suit. I could imagine him walking a dog, smoking a pipe. Perhaps not at the same time.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Mr le Mesurier has been stabbed with a paperknife. I think the knife belonged to him, by the way.’

‘You’d seen him use it?’ Hawthorne asked.