Far away, a poacher was making his way through a thick wood. He had no fear of meeting a keeper. The keepers hardly ever patrolled these woods and his pockets were empty of game.

He came across a dead man propped up against a tree. He stood stock-still. Crows and foxes had already begun their destructive work. And then he noticed how the sunlight shafting through the trees glinted on the gold watch on the man’s wrist. He bent down and removed it and tucked it into his rags. Then he searched the pockets and found a wallet in the inside pocket. The money inside was wet. He scratched his head. It hadn’t been raining for days. Still, the notes could be dried out.

He felt the cloth of the man’s motoring coat. Good material. It would fetch a bit at the pawn.

He rolled the body until he got the coat off. A good coat and trousers and silk waistcoat were revealed.

He looked quickly around, but the wood was completely silent. He busily got to work. The river had washed all the blood away and he was disappointed to find a hole in the back of the coat. But, undeterred, he stripped off and dressed himself in the corpse’s clothes and then, heaving and panting, dressed the corpse in his own rags.

Then, gagging slightly at the smell from the already decomposing body, he dragged it farther deep into the wood and covered it with leaves.

‘It’s all right,’ Harry reassured a still worried Rose later that day. ‘Becket and I took the body really far away and the water was deep and black.’

Rose said, ‘The water would be black at night. What if it’s clear during the day?’

‘Oh, it’ll be fine,’ said Harry, although he suddenly felt uneasy. ‘Have you been interviewed yet?’

She shook her head. They were standing together outside the house on the front lawn. A tendril of hair floated loose from Rose’s elaborate hair-style. He felt a tug at his heart but quickly reminded himself how infuriating Rose could be with her unfeminine independence.

Harry had told her as much as he knew.

‘If only it could have been someone from outside,’ said Rose. ‘Have you seen Daisy?’

‘I think she’s talking to Becket.’

‘She is not much use as a companion at times. She should be on duty.’

‘Not the little radical you try to be,’ said Harry. ‘When the chips are down, you are as class-ridden as anyone in society.’

‘That is not true, you hateful man.’

Harry looked ruefully after her as she walked away.

A footman came out of the house and said Lady Glensheil wished to speak to him.

Her ladyship was in the morning-room. Mr Jerry was sitting on a sofa beside her and she was holding his hand.

‘Ah, here you are,’ she trumpeted. ‘Not much of a detective, are you?’