She said nothing.

Latimer asked her, ‘Rosamund, are you all right? Would you like a glass of water?’

There was still no response.

Hobbes made to ask another question. But Rosamund was already speaking quietly to herself. He had to lean in to hear the words.

‘Oh dear, another funeral.’ Her head was bowed, hiding her face. Her shoulders were hunched. ‘Another funeral to arrange.’ Her downturned head shook a little.

Hobbes watched her closely. Latimer took over. ‘I know this is difficult. But your brother was murdered. We need all the help you can give us, even the tiniest remark or action might be useful. Anything at all that he might have said or done in the last few days?’

Rosamund looked up. But not at Latimer. Her eyes had gathered anger, which she directed at Hobbes. ‘You called me a liar.’

‘What the inspector meant was—’

Hobbes raised a hand to halt his sergeant. He spoke simply. ‘I believe that Bridlemere is a house of secrets. And that some very bad things might have happened there, in the past.’

‘I really don’t know what you’re basing this assumption on.’ Control had returned to her body and voice.

Hobbes played his most important card. He took a photograph from a folder.

‘You’re not going to show me … are you?’

‘What?’

‘Nicholas’s injuries.’

‘No. Of course not. Although there is an injury involved. Of sorts.’

He placed the photograph on the coffee-table. Rosamund leaned over to look at it. Then she picked it up and stared at it without speaking.

‘Does that dress have significance for you?’

She didn’t reply.

‘We found fifteen examples of it on the day your father died. Another buried in the cellar. And since then my officers have found another eleven copies, stored in the attic. And all of them have the same cut or rip in the material at the same place on the body. And the blood in the same place. Do you see? Just here.’ He tapped at the photograph.

Now Rosamund nodded.

‘That’s twenty-seven dresses, altogether.’ Hobbes’s voice was quiet and insistent. ‘We may yet find more. Do you think we will?’

She glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand …’

‘Do you think we’ll find more copies of this dress around the house, hidden away, mutilated in the same way, and stained with blood?’ His voice never wavered.

Her answer took a moment to form on her lips: ‘Yes. Maybe.’

The photograph was trembling in her hand.

Latimer asked, ‘How many should we be looking for?’

‘I really can’t say. It was an obsession.’

‘On whose part?’

‘My father’s.’ Having said this, she breathed out. As though relieved of a burden.

‘Please explain.’

She looked at Hobbes and then at Latimer. ‘It’s difficult to speak about.’

Hobbes’s eyes held no joy, none. ‘Still. Let us speak.’

Rosamund smiled weakly. ‘The dress belonged to my mother, Mary Estelle. I think she wore one very like it when she was young, when my father first met her. And I suppose over the years it had taken on symbolic value for him.’