But in the end, it did seem like the best plan. And so, the ever-dwindling band of guests sat down and thrashed out the nitty-gritty of what looked likely to be a two-day vigil of watching each other to make sure nobody else got murdered. A somewhat complex system for toilet breaks was worked out, and Sir Richard was persuaded that it would not, in fact, kill him to skip showering until the snow melted, or at least that it would kill him less literally than a bullet to the base of the skull. They even arranged, travelling in threes as always, to inform Mr Burgh of their plan, and to check in once more on the colonel who seemed not to have moved from his room since that morning. They arranged for dinner to be brought to them in the drawing room in order to minimise the chances of anybody wandering off, and, having eaten little and worn out their eyes from staring at each other, they settled in for the evening.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everybody, in the Lounge, with Guns

Tuesday night/ Wednesday morning

The night that followed was tense, and nobody seemed to get any sleep, although everybody took it in turns to lie down on something soft with their eyes closed for an hour or two, as much to show willing as anything else.

Between about one and three in the morning, Liza found herself on watch with Sir Richard and Ruby. Hanna was dozing fitfully on the sofa beside her, and Liza was casually stroking her nails across her wife’s shoulder blades. She’d also taken custody of the professor’s pistol when he went to sleep and, when she felt able, was keeping that ready in case somebody leapt out of the dark at them.

“You know,”—Sir Richard’s voice was sliding from laconic into sleepy—”I must say, you’ve done awfully well for a beginner.”

Liza wasn’t sure how she was meant to take that. “Have I?”

“Oh yes. Excellent catch on the whole she-should-have-been-holding-the-gun thing. And it was really very likely that it was actually poor Vivien behind the first two killings, so you really shouldn’t be too hard on yourself for getting it wrong.”

While she didn’t exactly have a huge investment in her own sense of ace-detective-ness, Liza could tell when she was being patronised and had never been a fan. “I don’t actually think I did?”

Sir Richard gave a hollow laugh. “Come on, old girl, no harm in admitting defeat. You said yourself it wasn’t a suicide, and she could scarcely have done Aunt Tabitha in. Which means we’re looking for somebody else.”

“Only,” Liza pointed out, “if we’re sure there’s just one killer.”