He nodded towards Nicholas, who was standing dazed, silent except for a stifled sob. He was leaning back against the wall as if he did not have the strength to support himself.

“Of course,” George said. “ Do you think I could clean him up? There isn’t any doubt where the blood came from.”

“Yes,” the policeman said gratefully. “Yes, I think you could do that.”

It occurred to Palmer-Jones that the two young men were probably of the same age, that they might even have known each other socially.

“Did you know him?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Played rugby against him at school.”

Martindale turned, as if he were going down the stairs to the ringing room and the telephone, then faced Palmer-Jones again.

“I haven’t been able to get any sense out of him,” he said. “ He doesn’t seem able to hear me. But perhaps I’m not very good at it. I haven’t got the experience. Would you try to get through to him? Before Superintendent Savage gets here.”

He spoke gently as if the boy were a patient, a victim. He was very upset. George nodded and the constable went downstairs. George took Nicholas by the arm and led him to a bathroom. He took a flannel, left behind by some forgotten visitor, from the bath, soaked it, and washed the boy’s hands and face. Still he did not respond. He allowed himself to be washed, moved when George told him to, but gave no sign that he was aware of what was happening to him. He was shaking. George began talking to him calmly and firmly, trying to break through the barrier of shock and hysteria.

“This has been very upsetting,” he said. “ But it won’t help to behave like a baby. I will help you. Now breathe deeply. Breathe now … And now … And now …”

The boy did as he was told. The shallow breathing, the sobbing calmed. He was standing without support and the colour had returned to his face. At last George said: “Do you feel better?”

The boy nodded. “ I’m sorry,” he said. “ It was horrible. Like a nightmare. I couldn’t face it.”

“Don’t talk now,” George said. “We’ll go downstairs and find Martindale. Then I’ll ask you some questions. Did you hear him explain that you don’t have to say anything?”

“Yes,” Nicholas said, “ and that makes it worse. He thinks that I killed her. Doesn’t he? You all do.”

“Not now,” George snapped, curbing the returning hysteria. “I don’t want you to say anything now. I want the policeman to hear everything that you say.”

They walked together down the corridor to the stairs. The three men in the tiny bedroom watched them through the open door. Mark seemed about to say something, to approach his friend, but George shook his head slightly, and he did nothing. When they reached the ringing room, Martindale had finished talking to Savage. He was sitting at the superintendent’s desk, staring blankly in front of him. He was able to control his panic better, thought Palmer-Jones, but he was probably nearly as worried and shocked as Nicholas.