It was said with utter conviction.

Hobbes matched her mood. ‘Still, we need more than that.’

‘There is no more.’

He let it go. For a moment no one spoke. And then: ‘You’re the daughter of Leonard and Mary Estelle Graves, is that correct?’

‘It is.’

Hobbes leaned over slightly, asking, ‘The youngest daughter?’

Camilla stared at him. The hatred was back in her face. It seemed to be habitual, a physical fixture that was only occasionally masked.

And then she smiled.

‘No, not the youngest. The second youngest.’

And so it began.

‘Who is the youngest child? Her name, please.’

‘Adeline. Adeline Graves.’

‘Is Adeline alive, or dead?’

‘She’s dead. Sadly.’

‘Did she die of a stab wound?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is she buried in a dress of blue and yellow flowers?’

‘She is.’

‘Where is her body?’

That smile again, the teeth on view. They were quite yellow, the only real evidence of age on her body, of time passing, of decay.

‘Camilla. Where is the body of your sister? Do you know?’

She wouldn’t answer.

Latimer asked, ‘Do you know who killed her? Will you tell us that?’

Still no response.

‘And what about Nicholas? Do you know who killed him?’

‘I can only imagine he overstepped the mark in some way. You must know by now that he had somewhat unusual … tastes.’

‘You think a stranger killed him? Someone he tried to pick up?’

She brushed this aside with a cold gesture. ‘I’m not here to talk about Nicholas. I have no feelings for him. Only for Adeline.’

‘You said to the officer who found you today that you wanted to tell the truth.’

‘I do.’

‘So?’

‘I’m trying to.’

Latimer’s voice grew harsh. ‘Try harder.’

Camilla scoffed. She held Latimer’s stare and wouldn’t let it go. Hobbes could see that Camilla needed to be in charge of this, of the interview, the whole situation. She was used to such things, to being in control.

He said, in a gentler voice, ‘Why don’t you tell us the story?’

She took a moment before answering, and her words were surprising. She said, ‘Tell me, Inspector, have you ever heard of Jules Cotard?’

‘Is this important?’

‘He was a French neurologist. In 1880, he described a new condition, a delusion. He called it the Delirium of Negation.’

‘Why are you telling us this?’

‘Because it explains why Adeline had to die.’

Latimer asked, ‘Was she suffering from this delusion?’

‘Yes, I believe so. But I only knew this later, when I did my research in the library …’ She caught a breath. Stopped speaking. And a great sadness came over her features, and a weariness.

Latimer pushed on, or tried to: ‘What form does this delusion take?’

But Camilla would not answer.

Hobbes had to prompt her again. ‘Do you or do you not want to talk to us?’

‘Of course. Of course I do. I desperately do.’

‘Well, then?’

‘It’s too … too painful. Too much is at stake.’