She should have let that one go. But professional pride made Liza give a sceptical erm. “Is it?” she asked. “Is it actually?”

Reverend Lincoln stared at her quizzically. “You don’t think so?”

“Well, I think if you actually look at real professional killers, they’re mostly people who look like professional killers. Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, Frankie Fraser. None of them looked like people you’d want to mess with.”

“Maybe I’m letting my imagination run away with me,” the reverend suggested. “But be careful. Somebody out here is a double murderer and it’s probably Mrs Ackroyd.”

Hanna patted the vicar cheerfully on the back. “Thanks, you’re really making us feel safe and supported.”

“I can come with you if you like.”

On the one hand, Liza thought, there was strength in numbers. On the other hand, it seemed a bit yicky to need a man to come along for protection. And on two more hands, that man might have been a murderer himself, even if he was off the hook for Belloc; and Vivien Ackroyd would probably be more dangerous if she felt cornered. “We’re good.”

They parted from Reverend Lincoln and continued to the tower alone. It was accessible only from the first floor, the second floor curving around it with no way in. The Ackroyds’ room was at the top of a long spiral staircase and had a sort of penthousey quality, partly because it was high up, and partly because there was an inherent swankiness to a room in a castle tower.

Feeling a sudden rush of apprehension that put her stomach in, if not a knot, then at least a bend, Liza hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Hanna whispered, “we’ve got this.”

Liza knocked.

“Is that you, James?” asked a voice from within.

“No.” There didn’t seem much point in beating around the bush. “It’s Liza and Hanna. We’ve … we’ve come to say we’re sorry.”

“And you aren’t worried that I’ll murder you?” snapped Vivien Ackroyd through the door. “You seem to think I’ve murdered two people already.”

The awkward thing was that, actually, Liza was a little bit worried about that. And while she’d had come upstairs to apologise for the way she’d expressed that belief, she didn’t think it was an unreasonable one to hold.

“I …” She could have lied and said that she didn’t, but it would have been transparent and not even an especially helpful deception. “Can you blame me?” she tried.

“Yes. Yes, I bloody well can.”