It was preposterous. Almost beyond belief. But I had seen when we played cards that she was much shrewder than she claimed. Belinda had mentioned that she had been a sneaky child. As she said, she was now a rich widow. The only thing against this was Tony lying naked on Belinda’s bed. The inspector did not believe he had been killed elsewhere. Had Rose been spying on him, seen him going naked to Belinda’s room and stabbed him? Had she only pretended to go to the kitchen? But the mug of cocoa I was given to hold had still been hot. And the kitchen was at the other end of the house. And the other ridiculous question: what man walks naked down a long corridor, knowing that female guests as well as servants might encounter him?

Instead of going straight to the house I continued to walk through the grounds. I came around to the kitchen garden, with the last of the apples on the apple trees and neat rows of cabbages planted out in the beds. Like everything else in the house it appeared to be well-run and I wondered if Mrs. Mannering’s rule applied out here as well. Or was it Tony who supervised? A gardener was at work—a young, fit-looking lad, who was shoveling leaves onto a bonfire. He broke off when he saw me coming and tipped his cap.

“Morning, miss,” he said.

“Plenty of leaves at this time of year to keep you busy, aren’t there?” I said, giving him a smile.

“There certainly are, miss. No sooner have I swept them up, then more of the buggers come falling.”

I nodded to him and he went off with a wheelbarrow to get the next load of leaves. Because everything was damp, the fire was not blazing but smoking. I stood savoring the sweet smoke that I always find so evocative. I was about to walk on when I saw something poking out from among the leaves. Something white and soft. I grabbed a stick and attempted to drag it out. It was smoking, or rather steaming, but I could see that it was the corner of what looked like nubbly fabric—a towel, maybe, or even a toweling robe. It was soaking wet and too heavy to lift, with the great mound of leaves and branches on top of it. I wasn’t sure what to do next and then noticed the young gardener was coming back. I hurriedly covered it with leaves again.

“How often do you light this fire?” I asked.

“It weren’t much use trying to light it after the last rain,” he said. “So I haven’t touched it for a few days now.” He emptied the wheelbarrow. “See, even now it don’t want to burn, do it? I reckon I might have to resort to tipping some petrol onto it to get a nice blaze.”