Fuck. Did it? To her it had seemed pretty cut and dried, but perhaps she’d been overthinking it. Or underthinking it. “No, but—it’s just too big a coincidence.” She turned to Vivien Ackroyd. “You left early when we said we were looking for the gun, then something hit a bush right outside your win—”

Mrs Ackroyd was in tears. “He was my husband, Ms Blaine. We’d been married six years. And now you’re saying you think that I—that I …” She began to choke, gasping out harsh, guttural sobs. “And Belloc too?” she managed.

Perhaps fatally, Liza tried to remain calm. “You and your husband were clearly having difficulties and—”

“And I suppose you and your wife have never had an argument in your lives,” Mrs Ackroyd snapped back.

“I’ll be honest,” said Sir Richard apologetically, “I was getting a bit of a … sense from you two last night, so, you know, glass houses and all that?”

Sometimes, Liza reflected, Hanna’s protective streak was wonderful. This did not turn out to be one of those times.

“I think you’ll find the difference,” Hanna snapped, “is that her wife is still alive.”

At that, Mrs Ackroyd collapsed and had to be helped from the room by the professor.

“Touch insensitive, dontcha think?” observed Sir Richard.

It had been. But it had come from a good place, and Liza didn’t feel comfortable throwing Hanna under the bus. “Even if it was,” she tried, “that doesn’t mean she’s not behaving incredibly suspiciously.”

Lady Tabitha sat back, her arms folded. “Well, if being upset at her husband’s death counts as suspicious to you—let’s just say I don’t envy your marriage.”

“Perhaps”—this was Reverend Lincoln, who had a professional obligation to pour oil on troubled waters even though, as far as Liza could tell, oil was the last thing troubled waters needed—”it would be best if we focused on who has the gun, and who killed Belloc.”

“Well, it wasn’t me or Dicky,” declared Lady Tabitha. “You all saw us coming to the woods at the same time you did.”

“Or me, or the professor,” added the vicar. “For similar reasons. Or either of you ladies.” He indicated the Blaines.

“Or,” Hanna admitted begrudgingly, “Ruby. We were with her when the shot went off.”

The colonel gave a kind of snort-laugh. “Were you now?”

“Sadly,” Ruby told him, “they were terribly well behaved.”

This, Liza felt, was a topic they’d do well to move on from as quickly as possible. She turned to the colonel. “Are you trying to distract us from the fact that apart from Vivien Ackroyd, you’re the only guest without an alibi?”