For a while they just sat there, trying to get used to being close to each other again, trying to comfort each other, but eventually the demands of the hotel timetable caught up with them and they had to leave for dinner. As she stood by the window, waiting for Hanna to dress, Liza saw two members of the hotel staff carrying Belloc’s body out of the woods. One of them, she assumed, was the charming gentleman whose comparative youth Ruby had been so unconcerned about. Technically, Liza supposed, they were disturbing the crime scene, but what else could they do? They might be snowed in for a day or so yet, and they could hardly leave a man’s corpse lying around indefinitely.

If she’d been the sort to make a big deal about irony, Liza might have reflected on how ironic it was that Belloc, so confident and so determined to be the centre of everything, was now being carted off to some makeshift morgue by two random members of hotel staff. But she wasn’t that sort, and while she was carefully not reflecting on it, Hanna finished dressing, and they headed down for dinner.

The dining hall was full when they arrived, with everybody eyeing each other in a way that looked like it wasn’t a normal dinner service. Which, of course, it wasn’t, for reasons of murder.

As Liza and Hanna settled at their end of the table, Ms White came forward and addressed the room. “So, a few food-related things. Firstly, we’re doing slightly fewer courses this evening because we’re trying to conserve our supplies. Secondly, that means the rabbit ravioli is being saved for tomorrow, and if you did want to try the langoustine then tonight is your only chance because we get them in fresh, and they’ll have gone bad by the morning. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I think we can all agree that this is a weird situation.”

“On which subject,”—Mr Burgh took over room-addressing duties—”I’m sure we are all aware of the sad death of Mr Belloc and, while obviously the coroner is not on hand to pass an official verdict, it does rather seem there was foul play.”

“Rather seem?” Aunt Tabitha’s voice was incredulous. “The man was shot.”

The manager did his best to project an aura of calm assurance but failed abjectly. “Well, we can’t totally rule out suicide.”

“You think he shot himself in the chest?” asked Sir Richard.

“With a stolen Enfield No. 2 Mark 1 revolver?” added Colonel Coleman.

“And he decided to do it behind a boathouse, while he was investigating a murder?” continued Reverend Lincoln.

“And he somehow made the gun disappear?” finished Professor Worth. Next to the professor, Mrs Ackroyd visibly tensed, and he patted her hand reassuringly.