He paused. ‘That poor woman who seems to live in the bar of the Coble? I’ve seen her there of course, and heard the cruel comments.’ He hesitated again. ‘I’ve bought her a drink once or twice. I always sit in the lounge, but passing through the bar, you know, I’ve felt sorry for her. Perhaps it’s because she was one of Margaret’s good causes that I always felt obliged to be kind.’

‘You haven’t heard that she’s been murdered?’ Holly asked the question, and Enderby turned towards her and seemed startled by the intervention. It was as if an impertinent child had interrupted a conversation between adults.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I didn’t go into the Coble last night. I had a large lunch before I got back to Harbour Street and managed with a sandwich in my room. How would I have heard?’

‘I need to know why you lied to us, Mr Enderby.’ Vera leaned forward across the table. The room was very warm. There was no response. The man stood up and took off his coat, folded it carefully on the back of his chair.

‘Well, Mr Enderby?’ Vera was at her imperious best. ‘Why the porkie-pies?’

‘I don’t quite understand, Inspector.’

‘You told us that you were in the region to sell books. But as far as we can tell, you haven’t been near a bookshop since you arrived. So would you like to tell us what this is all about?’

He seemed to collapse from inside. Vera had the inappropriate thought that he was like the shiny bag inside a box of wine once all the booze had been drunk. All the gentlemanly politeness had been a protection from the world and, now that it wasn’t working, he was empty. She thought he might cry, but instead he looked up with a quiet desperation. ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he said.

‘So why all the lies?’

‘You wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

There was a silence. Vera thought he was taking time to compose one of his stories, but in the end the words came out as an unfiltered stream. It was the same pleasant voice, but she sensed this conversation was personal, not his usual performance.