After that, the meal was conducted mostly in silence, as might be expected given the broken engagement and, Pat thought unkindly, the financial blow it represented to the Wittons. Jack Bouvier-Lynes made some light chat about theatre and night-spots, which Preston did his best to turn into a conversation, with limited support from Victoria. Fen stayed quiet; Jimmy barely ate.

They dutifully trudged to the drawing-room for coffee after the meal. Fen sat with her elbows in and her ankles together, taking up as little space as possible, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Pat breathed evenly and wished they were leaving together. She didn’t want to be in this wretched house, this poisoned atmosphere, for one more minute.

The clock ticked on; the rain drove down. Jack, Jimmy, Preston, and Bill went off to play cards. Lady Anna announced she had a headache, with no great effort at verisimilitude, and left them to it. At two, Fen asked, with just a hint of desperation, “Might I enquire about the car?”

“I did expect it to be ready before now,” the Countess said with a frown. “Ring the bell, please, Victoria.”

Victoria did so, walking across the room, then stopped. “Where is the kirpan?”

“On the wall, dear.”

“It’s not.”

Pat followed Victoria’s line of sight to the wall, where the beautifully carved, Indian-looking knife had hung. Only the sheath now remained. “Oh, the knife? What did you call it?”

“A kirpan. It’s a Sikh weapon.”

“Kirpan,” Pat repeated, memorising the term. “It had an elaborate metal handle, yes? It was definitely in its sheath when I arrived, I noticed it particularly.”

“How odd,” the Countess said. “I expect it’s being cleaned. We like to keep the decorative weaponry in good order. Oh, Henry,” she added as a footman came in. “The car for Miss Carruth to the station, please. Pritchard should have it ready.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you also keep the firearms in working order?” Pat asked, for something to say. “Including that marvellous old blunderbuss in the hall? Can they be used?”

That made the Earl perk up, and he was enthusiastically describing his experience of trying out various ancient guns and fowling-pieces when the footman Henry returned.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. Unfortunately, Pritchard says it won’t be possible to take Miss Carruth to the station.”

“Why on earth not?” demanded the Countess.

“Because the rivers have burst, madam,” Henry announced, with lugubrious enjoyment. “The man came by from Stonebridge just half an hour back. The line is flooded.”

“The railway line?” Fen said with open dismay. “But how will I leave?”

“You can’t, miss. It’s ankle deep on the roads and Pritchard says he can’t answer for the Daimler till it goes down. You could ride down to the village, perhaps, but then you’d just be stuck there instead.”