Taking the group down the main staircase, Sir Richard strode confidently across the entrance hall and into the corridor beyond, only to be bowled backwards by a large, black-clad figure wielding a gleaming dagger.

There were cries of, “Aha, got you now, you rotter!” or words to that effect from both parties before they were pulled apart by the collective efforts of the remaining guests. The man in black, it turned out, was Colonel Coleman, and the weapon with which he had nearly done for Sir Richard was some kind of decorative letter opener.

“Is that the solid platinum poignard from the library?” asked Mr Burgh.

“Probably.” The colonel reversed his grip on the dagger and held it with the blade running parallel to his forearm. “Had to get something to defend myself, and certain parties won’t open up the gun cabinet.”

“Well, put it back,” Burgh insisted. “It’s very valuable.”

“Man’s life is valuable too,” bristled the colonel.

Hanna was massaging her temples again. “Even accepting—which I very much do not—that arming ourselves is a remotely sensible idea, why not just use a regular knife? The kitchen must be full of them.”

“Didn’t want to disturb the chef.”

“Jolly decent of you,” remarked Sir Richard.

The colonel shrugged. “Not really. Don’t think she likes me. Gave me a very shifty look the other day for making a perfectly innocuous comment.”

“Did that comment,” Liza asked, “have anything to do with her figure, or whether she was smiling?”

“Certainly not. Just said I’d seen her on the box, that the food was excellent, and that I’d known a chap named White in Iraq and he was a damned fine soldier.”

Aunt Tabitha sighed. “Ah well, it’s the modern age, isn’t it? Can’t say anything without offending somebody.”

Not quite in a mood to rehash a decade’s worth of public discourse, Liza suggested they move on. They’d cleared most of the lower floors of the hotel, and all that was left now was the tower and the Ackroyds’ room.

It was, in all honesty, not a visit Liza was looking forward to paying. Her last encounter with Vivien Ackroyd had ended badly, and since they were rapidly running out of answers to the question, “Where is the desperate person with the revolver?” she wasn’t totally convinced that this visit would end any better.

The seven of them made their way up the spiral staircase to the tower suite. At the top, Mr Burgh knocked on the door.

“Mrs Ackroyd?”

No answer.

“Mrs Ackroyd?” he tried again. “It’s the manager here with several other guests, and we wondered if you’d heard that … that noise? And if you were okay?”

Still silence.

“He’s telling the truth,” added Reverend Lincoln. “There are seven of us, and nobody is going to hurt anybody.”