Joanna Barton replaced the telephone and returned to her work.

Jeremy Grenville spent the day in Appleworth with Eve. It was Saturday, after all, and he was entitled to a day off. His father would have liked him at the Cadver to meet the important guests at the conference but he knew that he would be intimidated by the occasion and would make a poor show of it. Even with Eve he was jumpy and on edge. That business with Ursula at dinner had unnerved him. Usually they spent the days in her flat in bed, the curtains drawn against the bright sunlight, with the sound of children playing in the street below. Normally he was quite relaxed there. He was reminded of childhood illnesses, when he was tucked up in bed during the day and even his mother was kind to him. But today he could not settle. He sat on the windowsill looking moodily down into the street.

‘Whatever is the matter with you?’ Eve demanded. ‘You don’t know anything about the poison on the hill, do you? You didn’t tell the keepers to put it out?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Of course not. You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that.’ But he could tell all the same that she did not quite believe him.

His mother told him that Ursula was dead as soon as he arrived home. She was in the hall when he opened the door and he thought later that she must have been waiting for him.

‘Mrs Ottway is dead,’ she announced. ‘I thought you would like to know.’

He felt ill, faint.

‘What happened?’ he said, stammering so badly that he almost choked. ‘Was it an accident? Yesterday she seemed so well.’

‘Oh!’ Olivia said, as if the cause of death were insignificant, unimportant to her. ‘As to that I can’t say. Old age, I expect. I haven’t been told.’

And she walked imperiously away to the kitchen to make sure that dinner was being prepared to her satisfaction.

George Palmer-Jones informed Marcus Grenville by telephone of Ursula Ottway’s death, so Olivia was denied the pleasure of telling her husband. He came in to dinner when she and Jeremy were already seated, rubbing his hands, obviously pleased with himself.

‘So,’ he said. ‘The old trout’s gone at last, has she? Can’t say I’m sorry. It’ll solve quite a few of my problems.’

They ate the meal in silence and Ursula Ottway was not mentioned again.

In the East Lodge Danny Craven drank half a bottle of whisky and fell asleep, fully clothed, on the floor.

Chapter Six