Someone was running along the hall. The footsteps skidded to a stop, the door opened, and Preston Keynes looked in. His face was an odd shade, pallid and patched with red.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Lady Witton—Lady Anna—”

“What on earth is wrong?” the Countess demanded.

“It’s, uh—” He looked around desperately. “Perhaps I could speak to you in private?”

Pat, Fen, and Victoria all rose at once. “Preston, what is it?” Victoria demanded. “What’s wrong?”

He gave her a ghastly look. “I’m awfully sorry. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

“What do you mean?” Lady Anna sounded shrill. “What do you mean, an accident? Is it Maurice?”

Pat took one look at Preston’s face and said, “We’ll give you privacy.” She had no desire to find herself in the position of comforting a bereaved wife, particularly if that wife was Lady Anna. She hurried out with Fen at her heels. Preston closed the door behind them, and she heard the low sounds of his voice, then Lady Anna’s wail.

“Gosh,” Fen said. “Should we see if we can help?”

“If you mean, shall we find out what’s going on—”

“That was exactly what I meant.”

“Let’s.”

They headed for the main hall and into the East Wing. Jack Bouvier-Lynes stood on the staircase like a sentinel; Jimmy sat on a low step, head bowed.

“What is it?” Pat asked. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t think you ladies should go up,” Jack said, and for once there was no hint of a smile on his face. “There’s been an accident. A bad one.”

“Is that Pat down there?” Bill’s voice came from above. “Thank goodness. Pop up, will you?”

She hurried up the stairs, brushing past Jack’s protest, Fen at her heels. The study door was shut, but the door to the bare room next to it stood open. She went in.

The Earl was in the corner, leaning on or possibly holding onto the mantelpiece, trembling visibly. Bill stood by the desk, over which a seated man was slumped, face down. His back was clothed in a dashing grey twill, with a sort of long grey protuberance sticking out of it. The image made no sense at all for a couple of seconds, and then Pat realised it was the carved metal hilt of a knife.

“Oh,” she said.

“Miss Carruth, Miss Merton,” the Earl panted. “This is not a fit sight for you.”

“Not at all,” Bill said. “Perhaps you could take Miss Carruth out, sir. I dare say she needs your support.” He gave Fen a meaningful glance.

She stared back, then shook herself and leaped into action. “Oh yes, if you would be so kind, Lord Witton. I feel dreadfully faint. The poor man. Oh, the poor man!”