She had to shake Vic to wake him and he was aggressive, still fuddled by sleep.

‘What’s the matter with you, woman?’ On the television the football match continued and he stared, transfixed, at the silent, brightly coloured figures. He was hardly conscious.

‘There’s a gentleman to see you,’ she said. She took his arm and pulled him to his feet. ‘Look at the state of you. Tuck in that shirt.’ She fussed about him as if he were a child.

‘What gentleman?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before. He wants to talk to us both.’

‘Is he a copper? Someone from the police went to the house yesterday about the fairy stories of Mrs Ottway’s. Grenville said he’d sorted it out.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, then she considered. ‘ Yes, he might be a policeman.’

The man was still sitting at the kitchen table. When they came into the room he stood up and held out his hand.

‘It’s very good of you to take the time to see me,’ he said, and Marie decided that he could not be a policeman after all.

‘What’s all this about?’ Vic demanded. He stood just inside the door, glaring. Marie hoped he would behave himself. He was always rude when he was worried.

‘My name’s George Palmer-Jones,’ George repeated. ‘My wife is Ursula Ottway’s niece.’

There was a silence. Vic Liddle was in no mood to say anything pleasant about Ursula Ottway. He could not bring himself, even, to mutter the usual condolences. Marie, embarrassed by the silence, spoke in a rush.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘ I should have recognised the name. She talked about you often enough. I liked her, you know. She was a kind woman. I was so sorry to hear that she’d died.’

‘Would you mind if I ask some questions about her?’

‘What for?’ Liddle asked. ‘She kept herself to herself. What else is there to know?’

I don’t know, George thought. That’s why I’m here. Not because Marcus Grenville asked me to work for him. I would want to find out anyway. Because Ursula’s death was too sudden and too convenient. Because, like Molly, I feel responsible.

‘There are some points we need to clear up,’ he said, being deliberately vague. ‘Things we don’t understand. Her cats, for example …’

‘What about her cats?’ Vic was tempted to swear. He had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon. But something about the man and Marie’s disapproval made him control his temper.

‘They’re dead,’ George said simply.

‘She told Grenville they’d died,’ Vic said. ‘It doesn’t mean it was true. She talked a lot of rubbish. She was daft about those cats.’

‘They’re definitely dead,’ George said. ‘ We found the grave last night.’