“And do you,” Ruby asked, innocuous as only a professional femme fatale could be, “think that she’s also the mysterious Mr B? Or do you think that Belloc was just wrong about that?”

Sir Richard waved a dismissive hand. “The man was a fool, and Mr B is a phantom. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

“Because organised crime existing is more improbable than a random hotel worker being an actual psychopath?” asked Liza.

“I have my theory of the case and I stand by it.” Sir Richard leaned back contentedly in his chair. “Do you have a better one?”

She didn’t. Or at least, she didn’t yet. “I guess I just think it might be … messier than that.”

“I see.” The expression on Sir Richard’s face was the opposite of impressed. “How very specific.”

On the sofa, Hanna shifted her position so she could put a supportive hand on the small of Liza’s back.

“Okay,” Liza tried again, “how about this. I think there’s reason to believe that Mr B is real and—”

“What reason?” asked Sir Richard, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

While Liza didn’t want to look foolish in front of Sir Richard, she also didn’t see what she’d gain by dropping either Ruby or the reverend in it, so instead, she said: “Belloc was eccentric, but he wasn’t incompetent. He wouldn’t have just made up a crime boss out of nowhere. That means he—”

“Or she,” added Hanna dozily from the sofa.

“Or she … is probably really here. And in that case, we should probably factor them in.”

So far, Sir Richard remained unconvinced. “That seems like speculation.”

“Speculation is all we have. It’s just that, to me, it makes more sense if there are multiple killers, some of them nudged that way by Mr B, than if one mastermind is behind everything.”

“Go on then.” Sir Richard tapped his pistol on his knee in a way that must have been breaking some kind of gun safety rule. “Who was it then?”

“Vivien Ackroyd killed her husband and Belloc. Then Mr B—whoever that is—killed her, and …” She trailed off. There was a look in Sir Richard’s eye. Because if she followed the line of reasoning she was inclined to follow—that in these crimes, like all crimes, it was usually the person closest to the victim—that meant she was about to accuse him of murdering his aunt. And, by extension, of clinging to his implausible single-killer theory as a smokescreen. “And I’m not sure yet on Lady Tabitha,” she finished.

“Well,” huffed Sir Richard, more than a little defensively, “I suppose we’ll see when the snow melts.”