Breakfast the next morning was better in some ways, worse in others. The hotel was running low on sausages and was down to its last few bowls of cornflakes, but on the plus side, there were no announcements about people getting horribly murdered overnight. Sir Richard stumbled down a little late and sat in his usual seat, saving the chair beside him for his aunt, but several rounds of toast passed, and the old lady didn’t show.

“Isn’t the dowager normally down by now?” asked the colonel, staring forlornly at his under-baconed plate.

“Oh, rather.” Sir Richard nodded vigorously. “Normally sitting right there”—he fork-pointed at the seat beside him—”glaring sternly up at me in silent rebuke for my tardiness.”

“Fuck.” Hanna flopped back in her chair and made a noise halfway between a sigh and a scream. “Just when we’d gone one morning without a murder.”

Sir Richard’s eyes widened. “You don’t think? Surely she’s just a little—I’ll go and fetch her.” He bolted from the room with such speed that people were still glancing around trying to work out if it made sense to send somebody with him when the question became entirely academic.

Liza picked at her cereal and waited for the bad news.

As it happened, good news came first. Or at least good-ish news. Mr Burgh arrived just after Sir Richard left to inform everybody that it seemed to have stopped snowing, which meant that the roads would likely be clear in a couple of days.

Of course, that did put them on a clock. Once the roads were clear there was nothing stopping the killer just vanishing into the night. And yes, technically that wasn’t Liza’s problem. She was trying to work out who the murderer was to keep herself from freaking out, but there wasn’t anything really at stake if she didn’t. That said, she didn’t like the idea of an escaped killer hanging over her for the rest of her life, especially one who might at some point have a reason for coming after her and her wife.

Not that she had much time to contemplate the nuances of this, because shortly after the manager had finished speaking, Sir Richard returned to the dining room looking flustered. “She’s not answering. I say, Burgh, you couldn’t just pop up and check if Aunt Tabitha is tickety-boo, could you?”

From his corner of the table, Reverend Lincoln made an if I might interject gesture. “What if we all go? If there has been another murder, it’s probably best if we stick together.”