‘Oh,’ Molly said. ‘ They never got on. She thought he was pompous and silly. But it was Olivia she disliked most. She thought Olivia despised Fred and could never forgive her for that.’

‘What about her mental state?’

Molly shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her since Fred’s funeral. She’s always been slightly eccentric, but not the sort you’d think to have delusions or hallucinations. What’s the significance of the time of death?’

‘Someone phoned the police to make a complaint about the poisoned buzzard. The policeman definitely said the call came through this morning. It can’t have been Ursula. If there was an independent witness of the poisoning it can’t all have been a figment of her imagination.’

‘Unless the police made a mistake about the time.’ Molly had no great faith in the police.

‘Yes,’ George said. ‘That’s always a possibility.’

‘If her allegations were true what would she have done with the buzzard?’ Molly asked.

‘She would have wanted it analysed to test for the poison,’ he said, ‘ and there would have been no possibility of getting that done last night. She would have frozen it to keep it fresh. Is there a freezer in the house?’

‘Yes,’ Molly said. ‘It’s in the scullery. I found it when I was looking for potatoes.’

They went together to look. The scullery was a damp, evil-smelling room with a twin-tub washing machine and an old-fashioned mangle. The freezer was scratched and rusty. George opened the lid and moved ancient packets of frozen peas and grey lumps of meat until he could see to the bottom.

‘No,’ he said. He was disappointed. He did not like to think of Ursula as having descended into lonely senility. ‘There’s nothing here.’

They returned to the warmth of the kitchen. That was it, then, George thought. There was no reason now for Marcus Grenville to hire them. Ursula’s death had been a convenient coincidence and the landowner had no further cause for anxiety. It was Molly, beating eggs together in a bowl to make an omelette, who thought of the cats.

‘Where are Belle and Lottie?’

He looked at her, as if she too was mad.

‘The cats,’ she said. ‘ Belle and Lottie were Ursula’s cats. If Ursula was loopy and made the whole story up, why haven’t the cats been under my feet all day whining for food? Why haven’t they been sitting on that chair next to the Aga where they always sit? I haven’t seen or heard them since I arrived.’

Then they began to search for the cats, as Ursula had searched for them the day before, and as it was not yet dark they found the newly dug grave in the middle of the daffodils.