The bedroom was large, in the very centre of the house, with two long windows slanting towards one another, providing two different views of the garden, the Snuggery and the sea. It was filled with expensive reproduction furniture that was pretending to be eighteenth-century French. The bed was a great pile of silk and wooden curlicues. The dressing table, curving under the weight of so many perfumes and cosmetics, could have come straight out of a French farce. Helen was sitting on a gilded sofa that boasted embroidered cushions and bow legs. She was wearing a Ricky Martin T-shirt that came down to her thighs and black leggings. Someone had brought her tea in a porcelain cup and saucer. It was on an ornamental table beside her.

Hawthorne was sitting opposite, perching on the stool that he had taken from the dressing table. Matheson had introduced him as a detective helping the police with their enquiries but Helen wasn’t having any of it. ‘Where are the real police?’ she asked Colin, angrily. ‘Who asked this man to come into my house? And what’s he doing here?’

That was me. Her finger stabbed out in my direction even though I’d done my best to blend into the background – not easy when the wallpaper had a pattern of roses and butterflies. I tried to avoid her eye.

‘They’re trying to help,’ Colin said, uneasily.

Hawthorne leaned forward. ‘We just want to know who killed your husband,’ he said reasonably. ‘The police are on their way from Guernsey, but the first twenty-four hours after a crime has been committed are the most important of all and we don’t want to waste any of them. It was a very unpleasant act of violence. He was killed in an extremely nasty way – as you saw.’ He paused. ‘You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were unwilling to help.’

‘I don’t care what people think.’ Helen le Mesurier turned to Colin. ‘Do I have to talk to them?’

‘I think it might be a good idea,’ Colin replied.

‘I don’t know.’ She pulled out another tissue. ‘He was sitting in a chair. He was tied up. And that knife! I bought him that knife. I got it in Barcelona.’ She began to cry again.

‘I can understand how upset you are,’ Hawthorne said, speaking softly. ‘But I need to ask you about your movements last night.’

‘I can’t help you. I don’t know anything. I came in and went to bed. I didn’t see anything.’

It was a start, anyway. ‘You’d just come back from Paris?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I got back in the afternoon.’

‘What were you doing there?’

Helen dabbed at her eyes as she considered the question. ‘I went shopping.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t remember. The Marais. Palais-Royal. Boulevard Haussmann . . .’

Hawthorne cast an eye around the room. ‘I don’t see any shopping bags.’