“Or accuse anybody of anything,” added Professor Worth with a frankly pointed glance in Liza’s direction.

When there was still no answer, Mr Burgh opened the door with his master key, reached inside, and flicked on the light.

It was, Liza reflected later, a scene that really wanted to be framed by lamplight, rather than the friendly glow of an overhead bulb. The room itself had almost been cheery, with a checked carpet in muted white and beige, and large windows opening onto the balcony, which in daylight would have given a magnificent view of the grounds and the highlands. The armchairs were a tasteful not-quite-pink, a painting of a vase of roses hung from one wall, and Vivien Ackroyd sat slumped over a small writing desk, the Enfield No. 2 Mark 1 revolver on the floor by her side. The air was filled with the scent of blood.

While everybody else was recovering their composure, Sir Richard pushed past Mr Burgh and strode confidently over to the body. “Single gunshot,” he said, “right temple. And there’s what looks like a suicide note.”

Liza’s gut churned. “What does it say?”

Leaning over so as to inspect the message without picking it up and contaminating the crime scene more than seven ungloved, bare-headed civilians already would have, Sir Richard read. “I loved my husband,” he began, “but we argued and I pushed him and he fell. Then when Mr Belloc confronted me, I shot him. I am truly sorry for what I have done, but I cannot stand to be trapped here with your accusing eyes always on me.” He looked back up. “Then it’s initialled V.A.”

Was it comforting that the woman Liza had made break down in tears by accusing her of murder had actually been guilty? She didn’t know. Any more than she knew if Vivien Ackroyd would still be alive if she hadn’t botched her earlier accusations. On autopilot, she slipped her phone out of her pocket. “I’m …” Her heart had suddenly gone out of this, but having begun it she felt she had to see it through. “I’m going to take some pictures. For the police.”

Mr Burgh nodded, but Lady Tabitha gave her a rather sharp look. “Do what you think best, my dear, but I must say I’m not certain your interventions to date have been beneficial.”

“They’ve been more beneficial than Belloc’s,” said Hanna sharply. “Or your nephew’s, for that matter.”

“I say, steady on,” protested Sir Richard.

Ignoring him, Lady Tabitha fixed Hanna with a cool stare. “My dear lady, I’d far rather Dicky stayed out of matters that don’t concern him as well. I’ve always found his little hobby rather unseemly.”