Daisy stripped off and hid her underwear at the bottom of a drawer. She did not want Turner to know she had soiled herself.

After she had bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, she went into Rose’s room. Rose was lying on the bed, her eyes half closed.

‘I am not very brave,’ she said weakly.

‘I’m feeling better,’ said Daisy in bracing tones. ‘That’s one fright dealt with.’

‘This won’t do,’ said Harry. ‘We can’t leave the body here.’

‘Why not?’ asked Becket.

‘No matter how deeply we put it, some animal might start digging and a keeper might find it. Kerridge would immediately connect me with the shooting. All he has to do is check the gun licences for people in Britain with a Webley and my name would come up.’

‘How would he know it was a Webley?’

‘From the bullet.’

‘We could dig the bullet out of him. And why didn’t they trace the owner of the gun that shot Pomfret?’

‘It was one of the hundreds of unlicensed old Boer War weapons in Britain. Whoever murdered Freddy simply left it lying on the floor beside his body. Whoever killed Freddy knew that weapon could never be traced.’

‘So what’ll we do?’

‘Cover him up with leaves and we’ll come back after dark with the car, take it miles from here, and sink it somewhere in the upper reaches of the Thames. Daisy said something about a car following them. We’d better look for McWhirter’s car, if it was him, and get rid of it as well.’

Rose and Daisy picked nervously at breakfast the next day. There was no sign of Harry. Both wanted to talk to him about McWhirter – to talk away some of the nightmare.

‘You are looking very pale, Lady Rose,’ said Maisie Chatterton, who had just helped herself to a large selection from the buffet. She sat down next to Rose.

Rose noticed that Maisie no longer lisped as she had done a year ago. ‘This is not a very exciting house party,’ mourned Maisie. ‘The gentlemen are either boring or quite too simply dreadful. Mr Stockton is a rotter, but at least he shows some interest in the ladies, which is more than can be said for the rest of them. Sir Gerald is as sarcastic as ever. Neddie Freemantle brays as ever. Mr Baker-Willis glooms about the place. Your captain is –’

‘He is not my captain,’ said Rose.

‘Indeed! You seem to be the only lady he talks to. I thought our hostess might have arranged something, but she spends her day reading newspapers and magazines and shows no interest in anyone. I asked her what we were doing today and she said, “Whatever you want.” What sort of answer is that from a hostess?’