“Ah, there you are,” said a peeved voice. We turned to see Belinda come up behind us. “I wondered where you’d got to. I must say, I thought it was rather mean of you to sneak off alone together, leaving me unguarded in a house full of potential murderers.”

“We were sent on a commission by Edwina, Belinda,” I said, wanting to laugh at her indignant face. “And anyway, why would anyone want to murder you? As you admit, you’ve no family connection.”

“No. Let go of me. You’ve got the wrong man. I didn’t do it!” The voice in the study had risen dramatically now.

Belinda stared at the door with interest. “Who have they got in there? Not Jack. He’s sitting with Edwina, being shown the family tree, and trying not to show that he’s dying of boredom.” She paused, put her hand to her mouth then grinned. “Oh, dear. One has to be careful what one says in a house where people are being popped off.”

Just then, the door burst open and William was pushed out, struggling as he was held by two burly Kentish coppers.

“Who was that?” Belinda asked as the young man was half dragged, half shoved out of the front door.

“An ex-footman,” I said.

We walked on down the hall, and made our way to the Long Gallery.

Belinda stared after them, speculatively. “He was the one who killed poor dear Cedric then? It wasn’t Jack after all?”

“Belinda, I have no idea who killed Cedric. It seems that he is another person who has a good motive.”

“It’s like a veritable house of horrors,” Belinda said, drawing her fur-collared cardigan more closely around her. “Next thing we’ll find out that it really was a batty aunt who is locked away in the garret. I can’t stand it here another minute, darling. I really do have to escape back to London to keep my sanity. Can you please work your magic on the clodhopping inspector and tell him that I had nothing to do with this crime and I’m needed desperately at home.”

“I should go up to London, anyway,” Darcy said. “You can come with me, Belinda.”

“Could I really? You’re an angel, a positive angel.” She reached up to stroke his cheek, and it looked as if she was about to kiss him. I felt a horrid stab of jealousy—I suspected that Darcy and Belinda had been more than friends in the past.

“Why do you have to go to London?” I asked, trying to sound unconcerned.

Darcy lowered his voice. “Why do you think? To see a pal at Scotland Yard. I can’t telephone from here without being overheard, and besides, these things are best done in person.”