‘She was a member of the National Trust, too. We found lots of photographs she took at National Trust properties. That was another hobby of hers – photography. It seems her favourite place to visit was probably Hammond Hall. You know Hammond Hall well, don’t you, Maggie?’

‘It says so in my file, I suppose,’ she said.

‘You’re a volunteer guide there, aren’t you?’

‘I used to be.’

‘You might have met Jenny Weston, then. You might have shown her round some time, explained the history of the Tudor wall-hangings to her, or directed her to the ladies’ toilets perhaps.’

‘I never really notice the visitors, you know. They’re just an anonymous mass. I forget them all as soon as they’ve gone. Unless they ask particularly interesting questions.’

‘Jenny might have done that. She was interested in history.’

‘Lots of people are.’

The volunteers co-ordinator at Hammond Hall had been interviewed after the assault on Maggie Crew. She had described Maggie as very knowledgeable. A bit cool and austere, perhaps, but some visitors preferred her as a guide because of the depth of her knowledge.

‘Jenny may even have dealt with your car insurance,’ said Fry, ‘or the insurance on your house.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘How do you know? I haven’t said what company she worked for.’

Maggie regarded Fry steadily from the side of her eye. ‘This is getting tiresome. What exactly is it you want from me?’

‘I want you to help us find the man who killed Jenny Weston.’

‘And why should I do that?’

She shifted in her seat as she asked the question. Fry prayed she wouldn’t turn towards her completely. She had got so far that she didn’t want her nerve to fail now. She didn’t want her face to show the reaction that made her stomach clench and her fingers tighten into tense fists.

‘Because we think he’s the same man who did that to your face, Maggie,’ she said.

A minimum number of objects were lined up in an orderly line on the desk; no more than a paperweight, an ashtray, a telephone – and a wicked-looking letter opener shaped like a dagger, with a sharp blade and imitation rubies set into its handle. The letter opener was the only item of any ostentation in the room, and it stood out like a beacon, the light from the lamp reflecting in its red stones. In a moment of thought, Maggie toyed with its handle, turning it so that the tip pointed towards Fry, then spinning it away again to line up neatly with the paperweight in a satisfying geometric pattern.

‘So tell me one more thing,’ said Maggie. ‘How was this woman killed?’

‘She was stabbed to death.’

Maggie took her hand away from the letter opener quickly, and picked up her pen instead.

‘It’s a waste of time, you know. I can’t remember any more than I have already.’