Lord Alfred took Rose in to dinner. Tristram Baker-Willis was seated on her other side.

Rose turned to Tristram first. ‘What a terrible business about poor Mr Pomfret.’

‘Eh, what? Oh, yes, frightfully sad.’

‘Who would do such a thing?’

‘Blessed if I know.’

‘Probably a burglar,’ said Lord Alfred languidly.

‘But nothing was taken. I mean, nothing of value.’

‘You seem remarkably well informed, Lady Rose.’

‘It was in the newspapers. The only thing they did not mention was a servant or servants,’ said Rose eagerly. ‘Mr Baker Willis, did not Mr Pomfret have a manservant?’

‘Yes, he did. Chap called Murphy. But he’d got the night off.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘How should I know?’ demanded Tristram rudely.

‘If Lady Rose goes on interrogating us during the meal,’ drawled Lord Alfred, ‘we won’t be able to eat a darned thing.’

Rose noticed Angela Stockton was drinking a great deal of wine. Still, she supposed, wine was vegetarian.

Daisy was tucking into roast beef with pleasure when Angela, defying custom, said right across the table, ‘My dear Miss Levine, I thought you were one of us.’

‘Lord Hadshire insisted we eat meat. Lady Rose could hardly defy her father.’

‘How very sad. Don’t you think Lady Rose and my son have a great deal in common?’

‘No,’ said Daisy bluntly.

Rose watched the three suspects closely after dinner, but there was nothing to show that they had a common problem or, indeed, knew one another very well.

She had pinned her hopes on those three. But what if there had been others? Others who might have paid cash?

Card tables were being set up. ‘I think some music would be pleasant as well,’ said Lady Glensheil. ‘Whom do we have? Why, Miss Levine, I have never heard you sing.’

Rose closed her eyes. She knew Daisy loved to sing.

‘Do you want someone to play for you?’ asked Lady Glensheil.

‘Yes, I would like Becket.’

So Becket was summoned and told to bring his concertina.

Daisy whispered to Becket and then threw back her head and began to sing.

If you saw my little backyard, ‘Wot a pretty spot!’you’d cry

It’s a picture on a sunny summer day;

Wiv the turnip tops and cabbages wot people’s doesn’t buy

I makes it on a Sunday look all gay.

The neighbours finks I grow ’em and you’d fancy you’re in Kent,

Or at Epsom if you gaze into the mews.

It’s a wonder as the landlord doesn’t want to raise the rent,

Because we’ve got such nobby distant views.

Rose suppressed a groan. The card players sat as if frozen. Daisy was getting into her stride, marching up and down and swinging her skirts as she roared into the chorus.

Oh it really is a wery pretty garden

And Chingford to the eastward could be seen;

Wiv a ladder and some glasses