I thought Hosmer would have a heart attack. His face turned a blotchy mixture of white and pink and a vein throbbed heavily in his temple. The cigar dropped from his fingers and lay disregarded on the paving, sending up a thin stream of light blue smoke. He stared at nothing for a long time and then began to lever himself out of the chair, pushing himself up with trembling arms. Suddenly he was a very old man.

He ignored me completely. I watched him walk slowly away and somehow felt sorry for the old bastard. If I had been spoken to with such utter contempt as there had been in Jill Salton’s voice, I’d have been able to walk under a snake’s belly wearing a top hat. If there was one thing she could do, it was to cut a man down to size. Aristocratically.

When he had gone, I sat in sheer wonder at the unasked-for display of feminine chivalry. Dame Jill Salton galloping to the rescue with lance poised and sharpened to kill was something I hadn’t expected, and I didn’t know whether I cared for it very much. Not because I was too proud to have assistance in fighting my battles, but because I would soon be asking her questions on behalf of Hanna – questions cunningly designed to find out whether or not she had killed her husband. I didn’t seriously believe she had: all the evidence indicated otherwise, and her rage at Hosmer on behalf of her husband had been utterly convincing. But, as Hanna had said, police routine means going by the book and all the questions must be asked. And answered.

I stooped and picked up Hosmer’s cigar and laid it gently in the ashtray, being careful not to break the ash.

III

John said gravely, ‘Mrs Salton will see you now, sir.’

I had been waiting on the patio for nearly an hour, making lists of people and what they’d said, and matching one conversation with another. It was what I had tried to do the previous evening before my brains went mushy. My brains were in better condition on that bright morning but the result was the same. I got nowhere. So I was happy to follow John into the same room where I had first met Mrs Salton.

Her face was pale and I thought she must have been crying. She said unsmilingly, ‘Sit down, Bill. I’m sorry about that little scene.’

I sat down. ‘Don’t be sorry on my account.’

‘I meant what I said about the job. You’d be very welcome.’

‘I might take you up on it, if necessary. How much of the conversation did you hear?’