Mrs. Mannering came in at eleven with a tray of morning coffee and a plate of gingerbread. “Mrs. Summers has awoken but with a bad headache. She asks me to excuse her but she will take her meals in her room today. She has, of course, had the most terrible shock. As have we all. But we must be brave, put a good face on it and soldier on.”

She gave a curt little bow and left us.

Luncheon was an uneasy affair with Belinda and me sitting across from each other at the large dining table. It was a simple meal, as befitted the solemnity of the occasion: a thick soup, a piece of poached fish and a milk pudding. Almost nursery food but frankly I didn’t feel like eating anything. I wondered whether I might be able to take a look at Belinda’s room and see if I noticed anything before the inspector from London arrived, but every time I went out into the hallway the constable was sitting there, stoic in his duty. Until I was heading for the lavatory after lunch, that was. The chair in the hall was empty but I could hear voices coming from up above. Cautiously I made my way up the stairs. If questioned, I would be retrieving a handkerchief from my bedroom.

Belinda’s door was open and through the crack I could see several figures moving around inside.

“Take a picture of that, Simms,” said a voice I recognized as Inspector Purdy’s. “And careful with that fingerprint powder. The bloke from Scotland Yard will want good clear prints.”

“This pillow is all wet, sir,” came another voice. “What do you put that down to? Outside in the rain last night maybe? Or could the rain have blown in through the window?”

“The housekeeper reckons the bloke washed his hair in the bath last night,” the inspector said. “His hair was wet when we first saw him. Still a bit damp, isn’t it?”

“Washed his hair in the bath? Who does that right before they go to bed? My mum would say you’d catch your death of cold.”

“These upper-class types are different from you and me,” came the inspector’s voice. “They take baths every night, some of them. And bloody great bathtubs too, not a tin bath in front of the kitchen fire like you’re used to, sonny.”

“Rather them than me,” the other voice said. “You wouldn’t catch me having a bath every night. It don’t seem natural.”

“What about the murder weapon, sir?”

“Have you taken the fingerprints off it?”

“Yes, sir. Shall I put it aside for the inspector from London?”

“Make sure you don’t handle it, boy. We don’t want your fingerprints on it, do we?”

“Righty-o, sir. And should we leave the window open? The rain’s still coming in.”