I ran ahead of her to Brutus. Belinda started the motor and we shot forward. I realized I should never have suggested that she drive fast. Screeching around corners on a lane with granite stone walls on either side. I held my breath, also wanting to get to Trewoma quickly—in one piece if possible. As we swung in between the gateposts another motorcar was coming at speed up the drive. I opened my mouth to scream. Belinda jammed on the brakes, swerved and missed a Scots pine tree by inches. The other car almost wound up in a ditch. It came to a stop and Detective Inspector Watt wound down his window.

“What the devil do you think you are doing?” he yelled. “Driving like a madman.” Then he saw it was Belinda. “Madwoman,” he corrected. “What in God’s name are you doing here? I told you to stay away.”

I got out. “We were looking for you, Inspector. We have new evidence that shows that Rose Summers is innocent. You don’t need to question her.”

That was when I peered into the backseat. Rose was seated there with the sergeant beside her. She was staring at me in a sort of horrified fascination as if I was an apparition.

“What is this nonsense?” DI Watt demanded. “What sort of evidence, pray?”

“Can you get out of the car and go somewhere where we can talk?”

“Back to the house?”

“No, not back to the house,” I said. “Away from the house. Where we can’t be seen from the house.”

He frowned as he got out of his motorcar. “I hope you know what you are doing, young woman,” he said.

“I do. Please trust me. I think we may finally have got to the bottom of this.”

I looked back at Belinda who was about to get out of Brutus. “You stay where you are. I’ll be back.” She went to say something, then realized the benefit of my suggestion.

The inspector and I walked together into the Scots pine trees. The wind made the branches above us creak and groan, but here there was no breeze and the ground was soft underfoot with pine needles. Above our heads a squirrel clucked an angry warning.

“Well?” he asked me.

I told him the story of Colin. He listened with growing impatience.

“You’re trying to say that a boy’s death, a summer visiting boy, not even one who lived down here, twelve years ago, has anything to do with this murder?”

“Everything to do with it,” I said. “I have contacts within the Home Office. It has just been confirmed to me that the boy’s real mother’s name was Alice Mannering.”

“Mannering?” He paused, frowning. “The housekeeper?”

“Yes.”

He considered this while the wind rustled above us.