MacFarlane beamed. “Mind doing a bit of overtime, Thoday? I rather thought you’d earned the job. She’ll be glad to see a familiar face when she arrives. Take her straight to the morgue, will you, Sarge? You know the drill. That should sober her up a bit.”

Thoday had been allowed to use the station Riley to pick up Edith. To his relief, she was actually on the train. She recognised him, but was anxious and silent when he greeted her. She grew even more anxious when he told her they were to call in at the hospital morgue before going on to the police station in St. Andrew’s Street.

The corpse who had been Dunstan, the tall, elegant man with the manicured feet, was lying ready for inspection when they were shown through into the morgue. An assistant turned back the sheet over the head and presented the face for inspection.

Edith, pale but controlled, approached and looked intently at the waxen face. No shouts, protests or even tears. “Where’s he gone?” she whispered to herself.

Thoday remembered his drill. “Mrs. Hardy, do you know the identity of the deceased?”

“Yes. That used to be my husband. Mr. Abel Hardy. What happened to him?”

“Thank you, madam. Will you step this way and sign a form to confirm identity, and then I’ll drive you to police headquarters, where Superintendent MacFarlane is waiting to answer your question and ask some of his own.”

“Killed by a military man, I’d say, Edith. The old blood choke method.” MacFarlane demonstrated. “He won’t have suffered for longer than a few seconds. It was a very professional assassination.”

“’arf a mo’, Super!” Edith said surprisingly. “I’ve been thinking about this. Abe may have been pushing fifty, but he kept himself in good shape. And he was quick on his pins. Had to be in his line of work . . . detecting, I mean. The types he had to work with! It would have taken some strength as well as knowledge of a stranglehold to get the better of him. Who was he with when it happened?”

“You tell me, Mrs. Hardy. We’re thinking death occurred on Friday evening. Sometime after six o’clock, judging by his last meal.”

“His last meal? What would that have been?” Edith was puzzled. “He didn’t eat it with me! I had to dine all by myself at the hotel. Not nice! Everybody stares! I was there—in the hotel dining room—from seven to eight. I expect that’s what you want to know. I have no idea who killed Abel.”

“It was jellied eels. His last meal.”

“Don’t be daft!” The green eyes scoffed at him. “There’s no way Abel would eat jellied eels!”

“You seem less surprised that he got himself killed, however?”