‘It’s so irritating to be compared in this way! I am my own woman. I have lived my life according to certain moral tenets. I will not be devalued!’

‘I’m not saying that—’

‘I think you are. I think you dislike me.’

‘Miss Watts. I don’t even know you—’

‘No. And you never will.’

Hobbes leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t yet sure where this was going, but he knew by now one thing: Jeannie Watts knew something of that night when Adeline Graves had met her end.

He concentrated his mind, and asked, ‘How did the play go? Was it a success?’

A slight shake of her head. ‘No. Regretfully. In Leonard’s defence, I think it was the wrong time for a revival. The Moon Awakes was a period piece by then, and the public’s taste had moved on.’

‘But it lasted the whole run?’

‘Oh, yes, ticket sales were fair to middling. We muddled along. Old troupers, and all that.’

‘Good, good. And then, on the last night of the season, you were invited to a party, I believe, at Bridlemere?’

‘Bridlemere? I don’t—’

‘The name of the Graves family home. On Palliser Road, in Richmond.’

‘Oh, right. I didn’t know it was called that. I can’t remember everything.’

‘Of course not.’

Miss Watts had gained a little composure. Hobbes needed all the details he could gather on this case, and he hoped he could tempt them out of her. He asked directly, ‘What happened on that night?’

She took a breath to steady herself. ‘After the performance we all went for a drink in a pub near the theatre, the whole cast and crew. But there was a sadness to the revelry. And people slipped away one by one, until only the faithful remained. Leonard and the leading man – I can’t recall his name, I’m afraid.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘And Betty was there. She was the costume designer. A few others. I was probably a bit squiffy by then. I wasn’t used to alcohol. Leonard asked me if I’d like to come back to his house, to meet the family.’

‘He mentioned Mary Estelle, I presume?’

‘She was the trump card, the reason I agreed. But it wasn’t anything like how I expected when we got there.’

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Something rather grand, and enticing. Carefree. Frivolous, even. It was something I used to dream about, incessantly, when I was a teenager. Being surrounded by creative people all the time, sharing ideas with them. But it was just a family home. A large house, and darkly lit, with lots of corridors. It struck me as being more like the houses I used to read about in Gothic romance novels.’

‘And you met the family?’

‘I did.’

‘Can you remember them all?’

‘No, not really. Not clearly. There was a brother and sister … I suppose that would be Nicholas and …’

‘Rosamund.’

‘Right. Her name has vanished. And then Mary Estelle, of course. As radiant as ever, if a little frayed here and there. A beautiful specimen.’