Latimer perched on the edge of her seat, looking uncomfortable. This wasn’t a house to feel at home in. Hobbes found himself staring into the eyes of the abyss, and it was garishly coloured, in the shape of a shepherd boy with a flute. And then Rosamund Kepple came in carrying a tray. She sat at the coffee-table next to Hobbes and served tea and biscuits. There wasn’t a sign of mourning, not on her face or in her body language. This could be just another day: tea with acquaintances. But her first words cut through this atmosphere of politeness.

‘Detectives, I’d like to answer the most obvious question for you straight away, so as not to prolong your stay here.’ She didn’t wait for Hobbes to respond, but carried straight on. ‘I didn’t kill my brother. I had no reason to kill him, none at all.’

Hobbes waited a second and then he asked, ‘Do you have feelings for Nicholas, for his passing away?’

She thought for a moment. ‘I can’t say I do. I’m trying to, I really am. I’m trying to feel sad, but it’s a difficult emotion for me to summon.’

Latimer came in: ‘So you didn’t like your brother?’

‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But …’

‘Go on.’

‘We’re not that kind of family.’

‘Which kind?’

‘The kind that cares very much for each other.’ Her nose crinkled in distaste. But then she softened, or at least made an effort to do so. ‘Please, don’t get me wrong. Sometimes I’m truly jealous of friends who burst into tears at the mere mention of a relative being ill, or made poor. But mostly I’m glad that my mother and father raised me as they did, raised all of us as they did, to be strong-willed, and not to live beholden to our hearts.’

Rosamund Kepple sat bolt upright in her seat, a delicate teacup perched on her lap, one hand resting lightly on the chair arm. She was slight in the body, dressed in a pair of mauve trousers and a white blouse under a purple cardigan. A thin decorative silk scarf was wrapped around her neck. Her hair was tied back in a bun. Her face was distinctive in that Gravesian manner: finely etched, drawn in at the cheeks. Her eyes never blinked. Hobbes knew she was sixty-three years old. She seemed younger. Willpower played a large part in this: she had the look of a person who was holding back time by the sheer force of mind. Her brows would crease with the effort, then suddenly uncrease when she realized she was frowning. Rosamund was keeping account of herself, moment to moment. Because of this, Hobbes could easily believe everything she was saying, for she spoke simply and plainly, stating the facts. He had to be on his guard.

He said, ‘Let’s go back to basics.’

‘Please do.’

‘Where were you yesterday evening around eight o’clock?’

A tiny smile played on her lips. ‘You mean, when Nicholas was killed?’