“Georgie, after what you’ve been through, you need some fun. Let your hair down. Besides, there are certain people who will be most disappointed if you don’t show up.”

“What people?”

A beatific smile. She put a red-nailed finger to her lips. “Ah, that would be telling. We’ll be taking a cab at five. See you then. Night night.”

And she was gone, leaving me wondering which people hoped to see me. Probably thrill-seekers wanting to get the gory details on a murder story, I thought angrily. I wouldn’t go. But then a ride down the Thames and a picnic in a park did sound heavenly. How long had it been since I’d truly had fun?

Until then I had already decided what I was going to do: I was going to ask help of the only person who could be of use to me—my grandfather. It was a glorious May Day with the sun shining down, the trees in blossom, the birds chirping madly, and pigeons whirling in flocks. The sort of day when one is glad to be alive, in fact. I caught the train to Upminster Bridge and walked back up the hill to Granddad’s house. He looked half pleased, half startled when he opened the door and saw me standing there.

“Well, blow me down,” he said. “ ’Ello, my love. I’ve been worried sick about you. I read it in the papers this morning. I was thinking of going to the telephone kiosk and ringing you up.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good. I’m not at Rannoch House at the moment. It’s swarming with police and reporters.”

“Of course, it would be. It would be,” he said. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in. What a terrible thing to have happened. What was it? He’d drunk too much?”

“No, I’m afraid he was murdered,” I said. “But neither Binky nor I has a clue as to who could have done it. That’s why I came down to see you. You used to be in the police force.”

“Ah, yes, but just on the beat, ducks. ’Umble copper plodding his beat, that’s what I was.”

“But you must have been part of criminal investigations. You know how these things work.”

He shrugged. “I don’t see what I can do. Nice cup of Rosie Lee?” he asked, using the Cockney tradition of rhyming slang.

“Yes, please.” I sat at his tiny kitchen table. “Granddad, I’m worried about Binky. He’s the obvious suspect and the fact that he fled to Scotland on discovering the body won’t help him.”

“Does your brother have close ties with the murdered man?”

“Unfortunately one close tie.” And I told him about the letter.

“Oh, dear me. Dearie me. That’s not good, is it?” he said. “And you’re sure your brother is telling you the truth?”