‘Do you have the letters?’

‘Miss Duval kept them at her flat.’

‘What were the threats like?’

‘Things like, “I am coming to kill you. Your sort of woman shouldn’t be alive.” Written on cheap paper.’

Kerridge stood up. ‘We’d better get to Kensington as soon as possible. I must see these letters.’

‘Becket will drive us. He’s waiting downstairs.’

Becket was silent and miserable during the drive. Rose in trouble meant Daisy would be drawn into possible danger. He wished he had told Daisy the whole truth of his fear of marriage. Marriage would mean leaving the captain’s employ, where he had been so secure, and venturing into the world of business because the captain had promised to set him up in some trade. Becket had been poor when the captain had rescued him and he dreaded failing in business and returning to a life of poverty. Then Phil Marshall, also rescued by the captain and working for him, had been excited at the idea of taking over Becket’s job, and was plainly upset and disappointed when Becket showed no signs of leaving. Daisy had initially suggested that they set up a dress salon using costumes designed by Lady Polly’s seamstress, Miss Friendly. But Becket felt it was somehow not a manly job. He preferred setting up a pub, but Daisy had balked at the idea of pulling pints.

‘Look out!’ shouted Harry. ‘Pay attention, Becket. You nearly ran over that man.’

At Cromwell Gardens, Kerridge nodded to the policemen, who were still taking statements from the cleaning woman and the neighbours, and went into the flat. The pathologist, who had been kneeling beside the body, rose up at their arrival.

‘Clean shot right through the heart,’ he said. ‘No signs of a struggle.’

Detective Inspector Judd entered. ‘Doesn’t seem to be any break-in or tampering with the locks. It was someone she knew.’

‘We’re looking for threatening letters that the captain here said were sent to her. Let’s start.’

They all searched diligently, but there was no sign of the letters. They were just about to give up when a sharp voice cried out, ‘What is going on? What are you doing here?’

They all swung round. A tall, severe-looking woman stood in the doorway to the front parlour.

Harry recognized her. ‘The lady’s maid,’ he said quickly to Kerridge. ‘Miss Thomson, I am afraid I have bad news for you. Your mistress has been murdered.’

Miss Thomson sank down onto the nearest chair, her hand at her throat. ‘Those letters,’ she said. ‘I told her to go to the police.’ Her voice had a Scottish burr.

‘Why were you absent from the house?’ asked Kerridge. ‘And what about the other servants?’

‘Miss Duval insisted we all take the day off.’

‘Who works here apart from yourself?’

‘There’s the parlourmaid, Ralston; the cook-housekeeper, Mrs Jackson; the kitchen maid, Betty; and Mrs Anderson, who comes in three times a week to do the rough. Mrs Anderson is here. She says she came back for something. The rest will all be back by early evening. How was my mistress murdered?’