Almost recognisable music floated from the gramophone in the corner. It might have been something from Elgar.

Old Mrs. Dell sat very upright, her walking stick close by the straight-back chair. She did not take part in talk of this and that, but watched. I thought that she paid particular attention to me. This did not make me uncomfortable. I moved to sit closer to her and asked about her daughter-in-law.

She spoke very quietly and with great sadness. “I did not hear her call out.” She sighed. “Times have not been good since she died.”

At that moment, Raynor was beside us, offering drinks or coffee. We both declined. Raynor glanced at Benjie who was deep in conversation with Eliot and paid no attention. Gertrude got up, picked a record and gave it to Raynor. She then came to sit with me and Mrs. Dell.

“Am I butting in?”

Something was going on, and I did not know what. I wished now that I had come straight out with it when I arrived. I needn’t have admitted to investigating, but I could have said that I heard a rumour.

A tongue twister came into my head: do they know that I know that they know that I know that they know?

Later, lying in bed, with the curtains open so that I could see the stars, I wondered had I imagined the silent warning signals between Benjie and Raynor, and my uncomfortable feeling that Raynor had been ordered to watch me.

As I fell asleep, it occurred to me that whoever had killed the unknown man would go to great lengths and take desperate measures to avoid discovery.

Chapter Sixteen

Gertrude had insisted I should stay in bed on Sunday morning. She would have breakfast sent up to my room.

Milly brought one of those trays, made for the lazy. I believe they come from the Gamages catalogue. I sat up in bed, propped on pillows, the sturdy tray with its fat legs in just the right position.

Milly was pouring tea. “Madam said you want to go to chapel.” She spoke in a flat voice that told me this would be a terrible nuisance for her.

“Or to just know directions and times.”

There was a clink of crockery and a cry. “I’ve spilt the milk.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, but I have.” She began to cry.

Breakfast in bed on the Gamages tray began to seem less of a treat.

“It’s all right, nothing is broken.”

“No.” She continued to cry, and was about to flee from the room.

It is not altogether easy to move that sort of tray once it has trapped the legs. “Milly, wait!”

Milly was by the door, which she opened and immediately shut. Someone must have been on the landing.

I was out of bed now and beside her. “You know what they say about spilt milk.”

She mopped at it with a doyley. “It’s not the milk.”

“No I didn’t suppose it was. Have you had a cup of tea?”