In a way I’m hoping that the man from Scotland Yard will come quickly, because this inspector seems to have jumped to conclusions and isn’t prepared to listen. But then again, not all inspectors from Scotland Yard that I’ve dealt with have been excessively bright. Oh dear. What on earth can I do to help? Poor Belinda is in a terrible state.

Having not been directed to a particular room we went into the drawing room where the fire was still giving off warmth. We pulled up armchairs close to the fire. Outside the windows the wind was now howling and thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Belinda sat hunched over, staring into the fire.

“Can I pour you another brandy?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t want the inspector to smell alcohol on my breath. Then he’ll say I was drunk and not in control of my actions.”

We waited.

“Do you think I should mention that Tony came to my room earlier? And that I rebuffed him?”

“Absolutely not,” I whispered back. “That gives you a motive. You should stick to the story that he was a childhood friend and you haven’t seen him since. That’s what Rose believes.”

“But what if that awful Mannering woman saw Tony going into my room and has told the inspector? And what if they decide to investigate further and somebody in London remembers seeing us together at Crockfords or at a restaurant? Won’t that look even worse for me?”

“I think that’s highly unlikely. Why would they ever investigate in London unless somebody told them that you and Tony knew each other? Nobody down here knows that.”

“But maybe one of Tony’s friends in London might know. Tony might have mentioned to them that he was seeing me.”

“I doubt it, if he was engaged to Jonquil at the time. No, I’m pretty sure he kept your meetings secret, if he was wise.”

“Oh God. I hope so,” she said.

We lapsed back into silence.

“I wish he’d hurry up,” Belinda said at last after an extra strong gust of wind buffeted the window. “I can’t bear this waiting. What if they do take me to prison, Georgie? I didn’t bring any suitable clothes for a prison cell.”

“One doesn’t, does one?” I replied, “and anyway, they’ll make you wear a uniform with arrows on it, won’t they?”

“Oh crikey. I bet it’s a horrid stiff fabric that will irritate my skin and I do mark so easily.”

We broke off this silly conversation as we heard the tread of heavy feet coming toward us. The inspector came in and stood staring at us.

“Good evening, or should I now say good morning,” he said. “I am Inspector Purdy from the Wadebridge branch of the Cornish Constabulary. May I have your names?”