‘Nonsense,’ scoffed the countess, ‘you Welsh are as thick as thieves and I don’t trust a single one of you. Ah, Chuck, bless you.’

The man boiling the water had brought a Meissen teapot to the table and laid it on a mat.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ said Fodder, ‘that the 13th Earl speaks only to the Winter.’

He unzipped the holdall that he’d laid at his feet, removed Lucky Ned’s head and placed it on the table along with a large gold signet ring. The 13th Earl was blue-white and frozen solid, and his expression seemed to be one of, well, surprise.

Everyone stared at it, as though sizing up a goose’s suitability for the pre-winter feast.

‘We thank you kindly for returning what is ours,’ said Lady Farnesworth after staring at the head for a few moments. ‘You know what this makes me?’

‘Angry?’ suggested Fodder. ‘Vengeful?’

‘No,’ she said, passing the gold signet ring to her son, ‘this makes me the Dowager Countess Farnesworth and my son the 14th Earl.’

We all looked at the earl’s son, who tried not to look as though he was pleased. There was a ripple of applause and someone blew a party hooter, but in a dispirited manner. To the Villains, it seemed that death was neither something to become sad over, nor particularly unusual.

‘Marigolds, please, Chuck,’ said the Lady Dowager, and once he’d passed her the yellow washing-up gloves, she removed the late earl’s head and placed it in the picnic hamper with a gingham cloth on top. She then patted it in an affectionate manner, and returned to the table.

‘One lump or two?’ asked the Lady Dowager, pouring the tea.

‘Two, please,’ said Fodder.

‘Well, then,’ she said, pushing the cup and saucer across the table to him, ‘is this the Novice that killed my husband?’

She looked at me directly for the first time, and my heart thumped nervously.

‘It is indeed,’ said Fodder.

‘Looks a mite scrawny to have taken His Lordship in single combat,’ she said, peering at me through a lorgnette. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to palm us off with a sacrificial patsy, now, would you? The disposable runt of the litter?’

‘Tell them you did it,’ said Fodder.

‘Are you kidding?’

‘Tell them.’

I could feel my hands trembling and wanted to put them in my pockets, but thought that might appear threatening, so simply pressed them against the side of my coat.

‘I was there when Lucky Ned— I mean, His Lordship was taken,’ I said, forcibly trying not to let my voice crack. ‘One moment he was about to kidnap me, the next he was gone.’

‘Don’t try to tell us it was the Gronk,’ said the Lady Dowager, ‘trying to wriggle out of your responsibilities by invoking the Wintervolk is beneath contempt.’

‘It might have been me,’ I conceded, ‘but I have no recollection.’