Her face was a study in incredulous dismay as she mouthed at her sister ‘unbelievable’ and ‘antique’.

‘. . . Even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him Lord, whose daughters ye are as long as ye do well, and are not afraid with any amazement.’

At the Olive and Dove hotel there was a reception line to greet guests, Mrs Ireland smiling, re-rouged and restored, Burden looking like someone who has had an operation and been told the prognosis is excellent, Jenny serene as a bride should be.

Dry sherry and white wine on trays. No champagne. Wexford remembered that there was a younger Ireland daughter, absent with her husband in some dreadful place – Botswana? Lesotho? No doubt all the champagne funds had been expended on her. It was a buffet lunch, but a good one. Smoked salmon and duck and strawberries. Nobody, he said to himself, has ever really thought of anything better to eat than smoked salmon and duck and strawberries unless it might be caviare and grouse and syllabub. He was weighing the two menus against one another, must without knowing it have been thinking aloud, for a voice said:

‘Asparagus, trout, apple pie.’

‘Well, maybe,’ said Wexford, ‘but I do like meat. Trout’s a bit insipid. You’re Jenny’s brother, I’m sorry I don’t remember your name. How d’you do?’

‘How d’you do? I know who you are. Mike told me. I’m Amyas Ireland.’

So that funny old pair hadn’t had a one-off indulgence when they had named Janina. Again Wexford’s thoughts seemed revealed to this intuitive person.

‘Oh, I know,’ said Ireland, ‘but how about my other sister? She’s called Cunegonde. Her husband calls her Queenie. Look, I’d like to talk to you. Could we get together a minute away from all this crush? Mike was going to help me out, but I can’t ask him now, not when he’s off on his honeymoon. It’s about a book we’re publishing.’

The girl in black and orange, Burden’s nephews, Sheila Wexford, Burden’s best man and a gaggle of children, all carrying plates, passed between them at this point. It was at least a minute before Wexford could ask, ‘Who’s we?’ and another half-minute before Amyas Ireland understood what he meant.

‘Carlyon Brent,’ he said, his mouth full of duck. ‘I’m with Carlyon Brent.’

One of the largest and most distinguished of publishing houses. Wexford was impressed. ‘You published the Vandrian, didn’t you, and the de Coverley books?’

Ireland nodded. ‘Mike said you were a great reader. That’s good. Can I get you some more duck? No? I’m going to. I won’t be a minute.’ Enviously Wexford watched him shovel fat-rimmed slices of duck breast on to his plate, take a brioche, have second thoughts and take another. The man was as thin as a rail too, positively emaciated.

‘I look after the crime list,’ he said as he sat down again. ‘As I said, Mike half-promised . . . This isn’t fiction, it’s fact. The Winchurch case?’