Something in the timing was off. I’d crept up the stairs, hunted for my keys, found the door unlocked, groped my way into the living room, put down my bag and reached out to switch on the lamp; the intruder had pushed me, then made his escape out of the room and down the stairs, stopping only to wallop me with a torch.

From start to finish, this must have taken a full minute, perhaps two. And during that time, Richard’s powerful car hadn’t even made it to the bend in the road? And Adam had given Richard a strange glance when he’d said he had come straight back.

I kept turning his words over in my mind. It was definitely a man. Why had he said that? Suddenly, something about the attack came back to me with such clarity that I let out a laugh, startling Bill. I didn’t know who’d murdered Nick, but I had a pretty good idea who’d been in my flat that night and walloped me with a torch.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Next morning, I asked the receptionist at The Dartmoor Lodge for the room number of Mrs Helena Burgoyne. She and her husband had already checked out, she informed me, and were returning to Bradford. Had they indeed? It was still quite early. The Tribe hadn’t had a very long walk that morning. Mr Richard Nickolai, then? I asked.

She gave me the room number. He was expecting me, I lied blithely, no need to ring him. I’d find my own way.

He wasn’t expecting me and when he opened the door his expression, just for a moment, was less than welcoming.

‘Nightshade,’ I said to him, before he had a chance to speak.

‘Nightshade?’ he repeated blankly.

‘It’s the name of a perfume. I think we ought to talk about it. Aren’t you going to ask me in?’

‘Of course! What am I thinking?’ He stepped back to let me in. ‘How are you, Juno?’ he asked, voice suddenly laden with concern. ‘How’s the head?’

I looked around. The room was comfortable, countrified in a chintzy sort of way, with a large four-poster bed and mullioned windows. There was a smell of scented steam in the room, as if someone had just taken a shower. Richard indicated a chair by the window and I sat.

‘I was planning on popping round to see you.’ He ran a hand through his hair, a little nervously, I thought. ‘That was a ghastly business last night, ghastly business altogether!’ He stared at me. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, apart from a sore head.’

‘Now,’ he took up a position, leaning against one of the bedposts, his hands in his pockets. ‘What’s all this about perfume?’ As he spoke, with one foot he tried surreptitiously to nudge a red, high-heeled shoe beneath the bed. I pretended I didn’t see him.