Rathbone tried again. “He might have been acting for a client,” he protested. “After all, he is a solicitor. Perhaps he was trying to get Parfitt to stop blackmailing someone. Had you considered that?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Monk’s face, there and then gone again. “Yes, it occurred to me,” he answered. “But if that is the case, then the charge would be accomplice to murder or, at best, accessory before and after the fact. He lured Parfitt to the boat, and he was in the immediate vicinity. So far we can’t place anyone else there. Don’t make a scene. It will only be harder for the family. I’m quite willing to have him come with me of his own volition, without anyone else knowing the seriousness of it.”

Rathbone was still prepared to argue, but the door opened behind him, and George came into the room.

“What on earth is going on? Can’t you deal with this, Oliver?” he asked angrily.

Rathbone felt his own temper rise. He wanted to snap back at someone, and held himself in check with difficulty.

“It would be better if you asked Papa-in-law to come out here.”

George stared at Monk. “Look, I don’t know what you think you want … Inspector … or whatever you are, but this is not the time to arrive at a gentleman’s home, delaying dinner and making a vulgar scene—”

“For God’s sake, George, just go and fetch him!” Rathbone snarled, his voice thick with anger. “If it were as simple as that, don’t you think I’d have dealt with it?”

George’s temper flared in instant response. “How the devil do I know what you’d do? He’s a friend of yours.”

The drawing room door opened wider, sending a stream of brighter light into the hallway. Margaret crossed to the entrance of the morning room, the silk of her gown gleaming, her face tight with anxiety.

“What is it, Oliver?”

“Nothing!” George told her sharply.

“Please ask your father to come out,” Oliver contradicted him.

She hesitated.

It was Monk who moved forward now. “Please, Lady Rathbone, ask your father to come out. It will be less distressing for your mother and sisters if we can discuss this matter privately.”

She looked at Rathbone, and then, as he nodded, she turned and went back into the drawing room. George followed her. A moment later Ballinger came out, but he left the door ajar behind him. The room was silent, as if everyone within it was listening.

“Well, what the hell do you want?” he asked Monk. “You had better have a very good explanation for bursting in here like this.”

Rathbone walked quickly to the drawing room door and closed it, then returned.

“I have,” Monk said quietly. “I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murdering Michael Parfitt—”