“Oh no, wouldn’t think of it. And dashed sad for both the Ackroyds obviously, her more than him in some ways. I just don’t think all of us sitting about here staring at each other will do anybody a blind bit of good.”

“I have given my instructions,” said Belloc. “Now I shall bid you good day. I must go and speak to the rest of the suspects.”

“Guests, Mr Belloc.” Mr Burgh massaged his temples in mounting distress. “Please call them the guests.”

Chapter Eight

Sir Richard, in the Garden, with a Wager

Saturday, late morning

Monsieur Belloc’s admonition to remain together lasted approximately eight minutes. They chatted a little about where they had been when Mr Ackroyd fell off the roof—all variants of “in bed” (Ruby, Liza was sure, made direct eye contact when she said it), except for Sir Richard who had been in the library, reading.

“On the subject of the library,” Professor Worth said, rising, “I heard that somewhere they’ve got an early edition of Die Vollständigkeit der Axiome des logischen Funktionenkalküls with some of Gödel’s original notes, and I’m very curious to have a look at it.” He glanced around. “Assuming we’re not doing the whole stay-together-so-we-don’t-all-get-murdered thing?”

“Shouldn’t think so, old boy,” said Sir Richard. “About to tootle off myself, to be honest. Might take a stroll in the grounds.”

Colonel Coleman stood up and stretched. “In that case, I might ask that Burgh fellow if he’ll crack open that gun cabinet for me.”

“What—why?” Hanna looked aghast.

“Because there’s one blighter out there with a gun already, and I’d rather have one of my own just in case.”

Hanna rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. Because that won’t cause things to rapidly escalate out of control.”

“Also,” added Liza, “I’m pretty sure the hotel is only allowed to let you use the guns for, you know, activities. I don’t think you can just sign one out for self-defence.”

The colonel shrugged. “Worth a try.”

The various members of the group started to go their separate ways, but when Liza and Hanna reached the stairs, Liza went straight past them, carrying on up the corridor towards the front of the hotel and the tower Malcom Ackroyd had fallen from.

With spousal insight, Hanna caught her shoulder. “No.”

“I just want to look around.”

“And what if she’s in? What if she’s up there feeling like shit because her husband fell to his death?”

“Then I’ll say hello and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Hanna wasn’t glaring exactly, but her expression was definitely on a spectrum that had glares in it. “And?”

“And maybe ask her some questions?” Liza’s voice ended the sentence an octave higher than it had begun it.

“No.” Hanna’s tone was sharp.

“But—”