One day, Liza hoped that she’d be able to answer that question without feeling like she was apologising for something. “I’m a … umm … I’m a true crime podcaster? And since we’re all stuck here and might die, I thought I’d have a go at … umm …”

“Solving it?” Ms White’s tone was much less sceptical than Liza had feared it might be. “What’ll that get you?”

“I thought it might stop me going out of my mind with worry. And you never know, I might work out something useful.”

Setting down her meat tenderiser, Ms White shrugged. “There’s not a lot I can say. I just—”

“Do you mind if I record, so I can make notes?”

“You’re really taking this seriously, huh?”

“It’s my job.”

Ms White came over to speak into the recorder. Liza had found this: sometimes, people were weirdly more willing to talk if they felt something was an interview instead of just a person asking questions.

“There’s not a lot to say,” Ms White repeated. “I was just heading back to my room after closing down the kitchen—”

“Where’s your room?”

“In the old farmhouse. All the live-in staff stay there. Anyway, I was heading back to my room when I looked up—”

“What made you look up?” It wasn’t the question Liza wanted answered. She was working up to that. She liked to think that the softly-softly approach lulled people into a false sense of security, but she suspected she was just afraid of confrontation.

The chef made a non-committal gesture. “The hotel’s pretty at night. I like to look up at it when it has all the lights on. And last night when I looked up, I saw somebody on the balcony in the tower suite.”

“Mr Ackroyd?”

“Yes. At least, I assume it was. I didn’t know him.”

“And there was somebody else up there?”

Ms White nodded.

“But nobody you recognised?”

She shook her head. “But then again, I didn’t recognise him either.”

The part of Liza that had read way too many weird cases started going down some very twisty rabbit holes. Because of course, they couldn’t be sure it really was Mr Ackroyd. The body had been wearing his clothes—she remembered that from the lounge earlier in the evening—but had anybody looked closely? And had his face really been recognisable after the fall? “Then what happened?”

“He fell, and I screamed, and when I looked up again the balcony was empty.”