“You mean she just cleared off in the middle of the night? Funny, that,” I remarked, trying not to sound like a private eye who’s one happy step ahead of the police.

“No, not the middle of the night. She didn’t actually leave till about half past six. Our bedroom’s at the back, you see. The car woke me up, and I got up because I thought she might have gone off without paying. I didn’t even know about the murder myself then.” She clearly saw nothing suspicious in Maggie’s behavior, and I was grateful for that. There would be at least one suspect I’d get to before the police.

“Perhaps she had a phone call or something,” I hazarded.

“Not while she was here,” the landlady replied positively. “I’d have known. I think she probably just woke up early and decided to get an early start. To be honest, I was surprised she wasn’t staying at the manor. Their friends don’t usually put up here.”

I could have come up with a couple of good reasons why Maggie Rossiter hadn’t been willing to accept Jett’s hospitality, but I wasn’t about to share them. I finished my sandwich, exchanged a few routine complaints about the weather, and set off for Leeds.

It was still drizzling when I pulled up outside Maggie’s terraced house. Crossing the Pennines hadn’t worked its usual trick of transforming the weather. Through the drift of rain, the house looked miserable and unwelcoming. There were no lights on to combat the gloom. Mind you, if my lover was lying dead in a morgue somewhere, I don’t think I’d feel like a hundred-watt glare.

Maggie took her time answering the door. I’d just decided she wasn’t home when the door opened. When she saw me, she started to close it again. I moved forward quickly enough to insinuate my shoulder in the gap.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” she demanded feebly, her voice cracked and shaky.

“We need to talk, Maggie,” I said. “I know it’s the last thing you feel like, but I think I can help.”

“Help? You do resurrections?” Her voice was bitter, and tears shone in her red-rimmed eyes. My professional satisfaction at getting to her first withered in the face of her obvious grief.

“I’m trying to find out who killed Moira,” I told her.

“What’s the use? It’s not going to bring her back, is it?” Maggie rubbed her eyes impatiently with her free hand, as if she hated showing me her humanity.

“No, it’s not. But you’ve got to grieve. You know that. And finding out what happened is the first step in the process. Maggie, let me come in and talk to you.”