“In heaven’s name let’s go outside,” Pat said, not mincing words. “I want to hear what’s going on without ghosts looking over my shoulder.”

Jimmy led them all around a winding path to the summerhouse with the view, where Pat and Fen had sat what felt like years ago. The air was sparkling clean, the sun breaking through the remaining clouds and tinting the purple-greys a vivid pink. The roof had leaked so the seats were all wet and they had to stand, which was no hardship; Pat never wanted to sit down again.

“Well,” Bill said. “The main thing is, Jack’s been taken off.”

“Was he sticking to his line that we’d all made him the scapegoat?”

“That was jolly good, wasn’t it?” Bill said, with what sounded like professional respect. Pat made a mental note to ask a few more probing questions about what his job actually was. “Ingenious, and might well have worked under other circumstances. But the fingerprint business knocked the stuffing out of him, figuratively speaking, and then Jimmy did the same in a more literal way, and he spilled the beans when the sergeant picked him out of the cellar.”

“He confessed?”

“His line is now that he had to do it because Haworth had learned about his adultery with Lady Anna and was threatening to kill her and their son. Nobly protecting the woman he loves.”

“There will be the most dreadful scandal if he argues that in court,” Jimmy said. “Anna won’t be able to show her face in Society for years.”

“That might not be a bad thing, you know,” Fen said. “There are doctors who might be able to help her, rest cures and so on.”

“I know. Now the swine is dead, she might even agree to see one.”

“I don’t suppose he’s telling the truth?” Pat asked. “I’d feel dreadful if we were wrong about the gambling and he was acting on Lady Anna’s behalf.”

“You needn’t worry,” Bill said. “There was a letter in Haworth’s pocket, one he’d drafted for Jack to sign admitting he was a cheat. Evidently he hadn’t turned the screws that far when he was killed. If we’d searched the body, we’d have known who did it immediately.”

“Really?” Fen said. “How utterly exasperating.”

“That’ll teach us to do the right thing,” Pat said. “Talking of knowing things immediately, Bill Merton, why on earth did you not say about the fingerprints before? There we were, fretting and puzzling and running around to find the killer—”

“Because I was talking rubbish,” Bill said. “The hilt is intricately worked steel and you need a smooth surface to take a fingerprint. I was hoping Jack didn’t know that.”

“In that case, well played.”

“So what now?” Fen asked. “That is, of course Jack will stand trial, but will the rest of us have to answer questions?”