‘Come on round to us, Princess!’ Ricky offered. ‘We’ll cook you dinner and you can tell us all about it.’

I had to explain then that I already had a dinner date and with whom.

‘Where’s he taking you?’ Morris asked.

‘Expensive!’ Ricky exclaimed when I told them the name of the restaurant.

‘Is it?’ I asked.

‘It’s famous. Michelin star, celebrity chef … um, what’s-his-name …’ There was a momentary pause and then they both spoke together. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘I thought my cream silk dress.’

‘You’re not wearing that old rag!’ Ricky informed me in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘What time are you going out?’

‘He’s picking me up at seven.’

‘You go and dry your hair. We’ll be round in half an hour.’ And he put the phone down before I could protest.

I have to confess that the simple, bias-cut bronze silk with the handkerchief hem, last worn by the character of Amanda in Private Lives, did look pretty sensational.

It certainly caused Richard Nickolai to raise appreciative eyebrows.

‘You look ravishing!’

My turn to raise an eyebrow: the dress was ravishing.

‘Why the suspicious glance?’ he asked me. ‘You’re lovely.’

‘I’ve got a suspicious mind.’ This much was true. I didn’t for a moment believe that he was taking me out to dinner to make up for the events of that afternoon. He had some ulterior motive. But then, so did I.

I had to admit he was attractive. He’d swopped his clothes of earlier in the day for a dark suit, white shirt and tie, which looked great on him and would have been more suitable attire at the funeral. I’d hung on to the orange shawl I’d worn that afternoon and wrapped it around my shoulders as we walked to the car. Any agonies of guilt I might have suffered at the thought of depriving Richard of his inheritance melted away as he guided me towards a gleaming, new, cream-coloured Mercedes. He opened the door, saw me into the front seat, closing the door and walking round to the driver’s side with the easy stride of a man who’s confident he’s making the right impression.

I suppose if you own a powerful car, you drive it, well, fast. But the blind bends are safer in the evening, when headlights light up the solid green walls of the hedgerows and you can see if anything is coming. I forced myself to relax, watching Richard as he changed gear – tanned hands, immaculate nails, shining white cuff with gleaming gold cufflinks, Rolex watch. Rich and expensive from the wrists down; dead, I suspected, from the neck up. But I was probably being unfair.

‘You seem to know the area very well,’ I commented casually as we took the road to Chagford, ‘for someone who doesn’t live round here.’