“I really couldn’t say. He was rather rude, but then I know plenty of rude peers and I expect you do too.”

“Do you know where he was staying?”

“Claridge’s.”

“That does imply money but no club.”

“He’s French, Belinda. Would a Frenchman belong to a London club?”

“If he had London connections and made frequent trips across the Channel, he would. So staying at Claridge’s implies that he doesn’t know people here and doesn’t come here often.”

“Not very helpful,” I said.

“You need to find out all about him. If you found him unpleasant, he may have annoyed any number of people who were just waiting to drown him in somebody’s bath. So find out what he does when he comes to England—when he’s not trying to get his hands on your castle, I mean.”

“I agree, but how?”

“I know an awful lot of people,” she said. “Including people who spend half the year on the Continent. People who frequent the casinos in Nice and Monte Carlo. I could ask questions for you.”

“Belinda—would you really? You are an absolute brick.”

“I shall find it rather fun, actually. Belinda Warburton-Stoke, girl detective.”

In spite of the tension, I had to laugh. “Girl detective,” I echoed.

“I’m sure I shall be better at it than the dreary, plodding policeman they are bound to send to investigate.”

As if on cue there was a thunderous knocking at the front door. I shot Belinda a look and went down to open it. Several blue uniforms were standing on the front steps and in their midst was one fawn raincoat and trilby. Beneath the trilby was a tired-looking face—a sort of fawn-colored, washed-out face with an expression that indicated life was always unutterably awful, and a fawn mustache that matched the raincoat. The trilby was raised halfheartedly.

“Good evening, miss. Inspector Harry Sugg. I understand that somebody at this address reported a dead body on the premises.”

“That is correct. Won’t you come in, Inspector?”

He was regarding me suspiciously. “I take it there really is a dead body and this isn’t one of those pranks that you bright young people seem to find so amusing—like stealing policemen’s helmets?”

“I can assure you there is a body and it’s not at all amusing,” I said.

I turned and led the way back into the house. Belinda had stood up and was waiting halfway up the stairs. The trilby was raised to her. “Good evening, madam. Are you the owner of this establishment?”

“No, she’s not,” I said shortly. “This is Rannoch House, owned by the duke.”

“What duke would that be, miss?” he asked, taking out a notepad and pencil.

“The Duke of Glen Garry and Rannoch,” I said. “My brother. I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch, great-granddaughter to the late Queen Victoria, cousin to His Majesty. This is my friend Belinda Warburton-Stoke.”