‘What do you mean he “was” a fraud?’ she asked.

‘Are you still here?’ Elliot said with a sigh as he looked up again.

‘Yes, and I want to know why you’re talking about Stefan in the past tense.’

Elliot shrugged as if it was of no concern to him.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he said. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘But how do you know that?’

‘It’s all over the office this morning. How the doyen of the art world Stefan Dunwoody has had a tragic accident and been gathered up to God. But let me ask you a question. How do you know?’

‘How do I know?’

‘Yes. This auction house knows Stefan well. But what’s your connection to him?’

‘That’s rather an impertinent question.’

‘Hardly, considering,’ Elliot said and leant back in his chair, looking at Judith levelly. Once again, Judith couldn’t quite place Elliot’s manner. What was it he was reminding her of?

‘So what’s your connection?’ he asked again.

‘As it happens, I’m his neighbour,’ Judith said, unable to keep up the subterfuge any longer. ‘The police interviewed me this morning, and if you ask me, it wasn’t an accident, someone killed him.’

‘Oh I see!’ Elliot said, delight lighting his face.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You seriously believe someone killed him?’

‘Shot him dead. Yes.’

‘How interesting. This was never about the dress, was it?’

Elliot’s smile didn’t waver, but the light seemed to die from his eyes and Judith felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

‘Of course it was about the dress,’ she said, knowing that Elliot could see through her lie.

‘No, I don’t think so. Because I think you’re a nosy neighbour, aren’t you? A nosy neighbour who’s got it into her head that just because I argued with Stefan at Henley a few weeks ago, and now he’s dead, you wanted to have a poke around here, thinking yourself the amateur sleuth. I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘Nothing of the sort.’

‘Very well, then perhaps you can tell me precisely when Mr Dunwoody died?’

Judith was surprised by the question. How could Elliot talk so easily of times of death like this? But it was all part of his attitude that she couldn’t place.

‘About eight last night,’ she said. ‘Maybe ten past eight.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you know it, but I’ve an alibi for then.’

‘You have?’

‘At eight o’clock last night I was at All Saints’ Church. You see, I sing in the church choir. Have done for years. And every Thursday night, between the hours of seven and nine, we have choir practice. So that’s where I was. In front of the vicar, as it happens. Along with the verger, various sidesmen and women of the church. And the Mayor of Marlow.’