“Not exactly yet, Your Grace. I can tell you that he was poisoned, but I don’t yet know what poisoned him. Maybe you can shed some light for me. The night before he died—did he dine with you?”

“He did,” Edwina said.

“And you all ate the same food?”

“We did. And furthermore, we were all served from the same dish,” she said, “and drank wine poured from the same bottles.”

“Do you know whether your son might have eaten or drunk anything after dinner, then?”

“I cannot tell you that. My son stormed out of the room in a huff, Inspector.”

“Was he prone to these ‘huffs,’ Your Grace?”

“I don’t see what my son’s temperament has to do with his being poisoned.”

“I would say it had everything to do with it,” Fairbotham said. “Your son upset or scared or annoyed someone so much that the ultimate step was taken to silence him.”

Edwina seemed to consider this for the first time. She looked around the room. “You mean one of us? Someone in this room poisoned Cedric?”

“Almost certainly someone in this house,” he replied. “When we get the results from the medical chappies, we’ll be able to tell more—whether it was administered to him that morning or the night before.” He looked around us again. “So nobody in this room saw him the morning he was killed? Is that correct?”

There was silence. Fairbotham turned to the constable. “Would you go and fetch his valet, please?”

“That’s it,” I heard one of the Starlings say in a stage whisper, “talk to the valet. I’ve always thought he was a suspicious character. Too good to be true, if you know what I mean.”

Edwina bristled. “You wish to speak with a servant in the Long Gallery? In front of us? That is most unseemly, Chief Inspector.”

“Murder is an unseemly business, Your Grace,” Fairbotham said, “and at this moment, everyone in this house is equally a suspect in my mind—from you down to the lowest scullery maid.”

“Well, really!” Edwina muttered.

We waited and soon the constable returned with a worried-looking Marcel.

“I understand that you were the duke’s valet.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Marcel replied, looking down at his feet.

“You speak English?”

“A little, monsieur.”

“Your name?”

“Marcel Leclerc, monsieur.”

“How long were you in the duke’s service?”

“About one year, monsieur. The duke took me on when he was staying with friends in Monte Carlo last year. I was very ’appy to work for him. He treat me very well.” He spoke with a heavy, French accent.

“I bet he did,” came a mutter from one of the Starlings behind me.

Fairbotham paused, and I could tell he was sizing up the valet, obviously not liking what he saw. “Right, Marcel. I’m going to ask you some important questions and I want you to think very carefully. Understood?”