The stink of rotting flesh, elevated to a peak of sensory experience by a high note of eastern spices, had both men coughing and gagging. Even Rosa, determined to impress them with her coolness, fished about in her pocket and produced a lavender-scented handkerchief to press to her nose. They stood in the doorway, ears straining, listening for a sound, anything other than the filthy noise of bluebottle flies, thick and busy at the open chafing dishes lined up along the table.

“The flies!” Rosa objected. “Are they getting in through the windows? The curtains are drawn, but someone’s left the windows behind them wide open! Shall I shut them or leave them?”

“Leave!” both men called together. “And draw back the curtains so we can see what we’re doing, would you?” Wells added.

“The table’s laid for seven. A strange number,” Redfyre commented. “But no guest even sat down. Plates and cutlery are unused. The food has been carefully presented, but not a spoonful has been toothed! The claret’s uncorked but untouched. It’s the Mary Celeste all over again! Where are the diners?”

He approached the dishes and angrily swatted at the flies. They counterattacked, loudly expressing outrage at the disturbance. In an effort to remember his professional status, Redfyre peered more closely at the dish of lamb standing in pride of place. “Ah! Where are we? Wednesday afternoon . . . Yes, I’d reckon this muck’s at least four days old. This is Friday night’s supper. I wonder what put them off their food.”

Rosa had been prowling about the room so as to avoid a confrontation with the grubs. “Well, they got started, at any rate. They had a glass of sherry each,” she said, counting with a finger. “No. Four had a sherry. One had a glass of . . . just spa water, I think. There’s no sixth or seventh glass.” And, in a tight voice: “Inspector, do you think you ought to take a look next door? Behind the screen over there, you’ll find Fanshawe’s study-cum-bedroom, I expect.”

A nod from Wells sent him on his way. Trying not to appear dramatic, he slipped on the pair of rubberised gloves he always kept in his jacket pocket to avoid leaving fingerprints, rounded the Spanish screen and disappeared.

After what seemed an endless time to his companions, he reappeared. “Nothing of note. Bed’s not been slept in.”

Wells ground his teeth in disappointment. “I must say—I thought you’d find old Fanshawe gutted and butterflied on the bed.”

“No such luck.”

Rosa had continued to perambulate about the room, scowling with concentration.