So that left her two choices. James Cartwright. And Anthony Barrington. If she had to pick one on the basis of what she already knew, she would have opted for Cartwright every time, but it wasn’t that simple. If she went to Inspector Dart with her latest suspicions, she was sure she’d get extremely short shrift. And approaching Cartwright himself on the day after his daughter had killed herself was something she couldn’t face. She thought back to her first few weeks as a journalist, when she had discovered how much she hated the ghoulish task of talking to bereft relatives, trying to collect pictures from them. Now she would do almost anything to avoid those assignments. She knew journalists who could cope in that situation, but the grief of strangers was something she still found painful and embarrassing, especially after Frances’ death. She asked herself how, carrying the extra weight of responsibility for this death, she could walk into Cartwright’s house and start asking the questions she needed answers to.

That left Anthony Barrington. It could do no harm to talk to him, she reasoned. If he was innocent, she could eliminate him—which would leave her virtually certain of Cartwright’s guilt. And if he wasn’t innocent she would have avoided a crass encounter with Cartwright.

She made her decision then and there. She glanced at her watch. If she drove fast, she could be at Barrington’s Welsh home by six. She grabbed a piece of paper and wrote, “Had to go out on business. Sorry—back about nine. If the office rings, tell them I’m on the road and I’ll phone in later.” She didn’t want either Paddy or Cordelia to know that pursuit of the truth was still gnawing at her like a maggot.

But luck wasn’t on her side. Just as she was leaving the building, Cordelia jogged back down the path. “I came back to see what was holding you up,” she said. “Paddy’s nattering to one of her colleagues, so I thought I’d collect you. Coming?”

Lindsay shook her head. “I’ve got to go out,” she muttered. “I’ve left you a note.”

“What do you mean? Don’t be so mysterious! Where are you off to?”

Lindsay sighed. “If you must know. I’m going to see Anthony Barrington.” She looked like a sulky child caught stealing chocolate.

“Oh, Lindsay,” Cordelia groaned, “why can’t you just leave it alone? Look, Paddy’s free. Sarah has confessed. The police are satisfied. Why can’t you be?”