I knocked on his door and heard him call, “Come in, open all hours.” I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. The wood paneling obviously deadened any noise from outside. The small room looked remarkably like Richard’s study. I wondered if journalists are born untidy or if they think the appearance of complete chaos is a necessary part of the image. Neil sat at the eye of the storm of paper, facing a computer screen, a small tape recorder beside him. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at me. “Kate! Glad you could find the time to pop in on a humble scribe. Sorted out your business with Jett?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t just a social call,” I said. “I’ve been asked to come and fetch you.”

His hooded eyes half-closed as a guarded expression crossed his face. “Fetch me?” he queried. “Who wants me?”

“The police,” I said.

I could see the muscles in his jaw clench. “What’s all this about, Kate?” he forced out in a light tone.

“Bad news. Moira’s dead.”

His eyes opened wide in horror. “Oh no!” he exclaimed. “Moira? Dead? How? What happened? Has there been an accident?” His questions spilled out, the professional habit attaching itself to his obvious personal shock.

“No accident, I’m afraid. Look, Neil, you’d better get along to the blue drawing room. The police want to see everyone who was in the house. They’ll be able to fill you in on the details.”

“You mean, it happened here?”

“Why? Where did you think it had happened?”

“I don’t know. She said something earlier about going down to

“That’s right,” I replied as I followed him.

As I re-emerged in the hall, a plain clothes policeman pounced. “Kate Brannigan?” he demanded.

“That’s me,” I agreed.

“You didn’t tell us you’re a private investigator,” he accused.

“No one asked me,” I replied, unable to resist. I don’t know why I get this urge to be a smartass round coppers.

“The inspector wants to see you right now,” he told me, steering me down the hall into a smaller room next to the blue drawing room. It was wood paneled and stuffed with leather chairs. It looked like I’ve always imagined a gentlemen’s club to be. A small writing desk had been moved away from the wall, and behind it sat a slim, dark-haired man in his mid thirties, his eyes indistinct behind a pair of glasses with tinted lenses. He was the last man in England wearing a pale blue shirt with white collar and cuffs under his dark blue suit. His striped tie was neatly knotted. He didn’t look as if he’d been called out of bed in the middle of the night, but equally, he didn’t look crumpled enough to have been on duty.