“Fortunately, there are no panthers wandering about Britain as far as I know,” Edwina said. She looked out of the window. “Beastly day. Serves Cedric right for bringing down that architect chappy for his wretched amphitheater. I hope they both get soaked to the skin.”

“I can’t think what the boy was thinking,” Princess Charlotte said. “Hordes of people tramping over the estate. Not a moment of privacy. Didn’t you try to talk him out of it, Edwina?”

“Of course I did, but he wouldn’t listen. I’m utterly appalled by the whole thing, especially by his callous attitude toward the tenants in those cottages. People have lived there for generations—our estate people—and he simply couldn’t care a fig. I don’t know how I could have raised such a selfish son. His father would give him a good talking-to. A good thrashing would have been even better.”

“Maybe we should have summoned his father during the séance last night,” Virginia suggested.

“Please, Virginia, no more about that séance,” Edwina said. “News of it has quite upset the servants. In fact—” She broke off at the sound of an anguished wail. “Now what?” she demanded. Far off, we could hear what sounded like a hysterical outburst.

“You see what I mean, Charlotte?” Edwina said. “You’ve got them all frightened.”

We sat there, poised as in a tableau until we heard the sound of feet running in our direction. Elsie, the head housemaid, came bursting into the breakfast room. “Beg pardon, Your Grace,” she said.

“What is it, Elsie?” Edwina had risen to her feet. “Who is making that ridiculous noise?”

“It’s Lady Irene’s maid, Your Grace. She says she can’t wake Lady Irene.”

Edwina was clutching the jet brooch at her throat. “That silly girl. She can’t have . . .” she said. “Elsie, go to Mr. Huxstep and tell him to telephone Dr. Bradley at once. Tell him Lady Irene might have tried to kill herself.”

She started out of the room, her hand clasped to her prodigious bosom.

“I’ll come with you,” I said, and she didn’t turn me down.

Up the grand staircase we went, along the front hall with its magnificent views of the rain-swept lake, toward the sound of uncontrolled sobbing. A thin woman with an unmistakably French profile, dressed in severe black, was cowering in the hallway, a lace handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

“Pull yourself together, Francoise,” the dowager duchess said. She pushed the maid aside and flung open the bedroom door. Irene lay pale and unmoving in her big, white bed. She looked much younger without her perpetual, worried frown, and I could see she must have been quite a beauty once. I went over to her and put my face close to her cheek. I felt the warmth of breath. “She’s still alive,” I said.