Darcy’s eyes met mine, then he said, “You’re very kind, Aunt Oona, and I think Georgie would be happy to accept, but I’m afraid I have to keep an eye on my father. He’s in a deep state of depression. He already threatened to blow his brains out last night.”

“Always was one for high drama,” Oona sniffed. “Used to make a fuss as a child if he so much as got a splinter in his finger.”

“This is rather more serious than a splinter, Aunt Oona,” Darcy reminded her. “He’s accused of murder, and it very much looks as if he’s guilty.”

“Rubbish,” Oona said. “Your father couldn’t kill anyone. He killed our poor dog, of course, but I know that was an accident. But as for doing it deliberately, with malice aforethought, no. Not possible. You should have seen him after his first hunt. They bloodied him, the way one does, and when they threw the fox to the hounds he was sick all over the master’s boots. He never did like killing anything.” She shook her head. “Oh, I know he’s all bark. Fly off the handle at the least little thing. But there’s no bite. He might have swung a punch at that American, but he wouldn’t have killed him. How did he die?”

“Hit on the head with one of the old weapons hanging on the wall.”

She thought about this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose he could have done that. Grabbed something in the spur of the moment and whacked the bloke. Ah, Treadwell. Coffee. Jolly good.”

The ancient butler came in, wearing, as she had predicted, his frock coat.

“Your coffee, Lady Whyte.” He waited while she removed the hat and gloves from the low table, then he put the tray down and picked up the potatoes. “Should I pour the coffee or take these back to the kitchen? Or were you planning to do something with them in here?”

Oona stared at them. “I’ve no idea how they got here, Treadwell. I remember digging them up yesterday but then I suppose I got distracted. Probably had the urge to finish that new painting. So please do take them to the kitchen.”

“Very good, your ladyship. And may I be permitted to say that it’s good to see you, Mr. Darcy, although in such tragic circumstances. Will you please convey my respects to your father and tell him that I am willing to testify to his character, if that would be of help.”

“Very good of you, Treadwell,” Darcy said. “Yes, I will tell him.”

Treadwell gave a little bow and left.