“Murder,” said Belloc with more than a hint of sanctimony, “is not a subject for talk with the girls. It is not something for a casual chat over wine and nibbles. Murder is a serious subject for serious people. It is, as the saying has it and most rightly, a subject most foul.”

That quieted the room for a moment, even the loquacious Sir Richard. Then Hanna said simply: “Bollocks.”

“If you will pardon me, madame, it is not, how you say, bollocks.”

“Yes, it is.” Hanna was doing her scornful tone. It was a tone that Liza hated to be on the end of but secretly enjoyed hearing directed at other people. “The world is full of terrible shit, but everyone copes with terrible shit in different ways. And yes, obviously, there will be people who feel hurt by podcasts like Actual, and there will be people who feel helped by them. And people who don’t give a fuck either way. But from what you’ve said it sounds like all you really care about is girls playing on your lawn.”

“Belloc does not have to listen to this,” Belloc said. And demonstrating his determination not to listen to it, he rose and left the drawing room.

“Well.” Sir Richard leaned contentedly back in his chair. “You showed him, eh what?”

Hanna settled down onto a short sofa and, after a longer pause than was probably appropriate for a married woman, Liza settled down beside her.

“I wasn’t trying to show anybody anything,” Hanna insisted. “I just can’t stand gatekeepy bullshit. I get enough of that at work.”

There were no two ways about it: Hanna was magnificent. She was a fighter. She was forging her own way in a notoriously hostile world, and Liza loved her for it. But fuck was it annoying right then. “Thank you for standing up for me,” said Liza without much conviction. Then she kissed her wife on the cheek, and it felt like a lie.

For a while they chatted with the ebullient Sir Richard. Which mostly involved him talking without pausing for breath while Hanna and Liza made occasional encouraging noises. So it came as something of a relief when the pseudo-monologue was interrupted by raised voices from the corridor outside.

“… nearly eight thirty.”

“So what? Nobody is waiting for us, Vivien. We are on holiday and we can take as long as we damned well please.”

“Don’t you ‘we’ me, I was ready half an hour ago. You were the one who had to ‘see if you could get reception.’”

“There was a signal on the balcony. I’m sure of it.”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, Malcom. You won’t get a signal no matter how much you wave your phone around and stand on one leg.”