Belloc shuffled over to her. “I do not care for your tone, madame. And you,”—he indicated Liza—”keep recording. Belloc may wish to review this footage later. Now, as I was saying, it is not by accident that Belloc came here. No, mes amis! He came on the trail of a most devilish and dastardly criminal. A man who is, to the crime, like … like some great general of history.”

“Like Napoleon?” asked the colonel.

“I was thinking, perhaps,” Belloc mused, “more like Charles de Gaulle. He is the Charles de Gaulle of crime.”

The vicar raised a hand. “Isn’t Charles de Gaulle generally considered something of a heroic figure?”

“So was Napoleon, in some circles,” observed the professor.

The various interruptions were too much for Belloc. “Enough. This … Charles de Gaulle of Crime is a phantom, a spirit. None have seen his face and lived, and he is known to the demi-monde only by the alias Monsieur—I am sorry, Mr B.”

Having returned to Liza’s side, Hanna leaned over to whisper in her ear. “How does he forget the word mister but remember the word etiolated?”

“Perhaps he’s trying to lull criminals into a false sense of security by pretending his English is worse than it is,” Liza suggested.

“Perhaps he’s actually from Clacton and all this French bollocks is for show.”

“And it is to this hotel that he has come!” Belloc was saying. “That he has come seeking something precious that was taken from him. It is this mastermind that Belloc has come to capture, and by God, that is what Belloc will do.”

Sir Richard scratched his head. “That’s all very well, old boy, but what about the cadaver?”

“Perhaps,” Mr Burgh suggested, “those of us who aren’t detectives could, um, go back to our rooms and leave it to the professionals?”

Since the show was mostly over, and the manager was making a strong effort to chivvy them along, the guests began to disperse. Which left the two sleuths to bicker over what exactly was to be done about the unfortunate Mr Ackroyd. The vicar, true to his calling, took Emmeline aside and did his best to calm her down while the rest of the onlookers, save a few ditherers, went back to bed. Liza was about to stop filming for reasons of taste when, glancing over her shoulder, she saw a figure approaching through the snow and hesitated. Not being quite so callous as Hanna had implied, Liza turned the camera off the moment she realised that it was Mrs Ackroyd making her way slowly through the storm from elsewhere in the grounds.

“What’s happened?” she called, shielding her eyes with one hand and peering blearily through the night. “What’s the commotion?”