Rory’s pencil hovered in mid-air. He turned to Issy, shock on his face. ‘What?’

Issy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But . . .’ Rory shook his head. ‘That can’t be.’

‘Why not? If he says he killed Charlie, why shouldn’t they think he killed someone else, too?’

‘Because . . . because . . .’

Issy put her hands comfortingly on Rory’s thin shoulders. ‘I know, sweetie. It must be so hard for you.’

‘No.’ Rory shook his head. ‘It’s not hard for me.’

She felt his shoulders shaking beneath her hands, looked down and saw he was crying. ‘Oh darling, it is, of course it is. Come here.’ She kneeled down by his chair and opened her arms to hug him. He sobbed onto her shoulder as she stroked his hair. ‘There, there, let it all out. Never hurts to have a good bawl, does it? You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.’

Rory’s head moved so he could look her in the eye. ‘No, I won’t. I won’t ever. You see, this is all my fault.’

‘No, it’s not, sweetie. You never expected your dad to go and kill Charlie when you told him about his bullying. You mustn’t blame yourself. He took that decision, not you, and you’re not responsible for his actions, really you aren’t.’

‘But I am, Issy, I am.’

‘Why, Rory?’ she urged. ‘Tell me why.’

‘Because . . . because . . .’ Rory laid his head on Issy’s knee, and closed his eyes with a sigh. ‘It wasn’t Dad that killed Charlie, it was me.’

‘Jenny.’ Robert Jones’s grey face peered out of the office. ‘Could you organise some coffee and bring it through?’

‘Of course, Mr Jones. Won’t be a tic.’

Jenny went to the small kitchenette and put on the kettle. She felt exhausted. The telephone had been ringing off the hook all morning, with the press getting wind of something going on at Fleat House. And what with the emotional rollercoaster in her own life . . . Jenny placed a cup, milk and sugar on a tray and took it through to Mr Jones’s office.

‘Thank you, Jenny.’ Robert Jones poured milk and a heaped teaspoon of sugar into the cup, picked it up and slurped it noisily. ‘Are you coping out there?’

‘Just. But I don’t know what to say to all these journalists. Do you know what’s going on?’

He put the coffee cup down and sighed. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do; there’s been another death.’

‘Another death? Oh Mr Jones!’

Robert Jones sighed and shook his head wearily. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter now if I tell you. The entire world will know in a few hours’ time. A man’s body was found in a trunk in the cellar of Fleat House yesterday. And it was obvious he’d been murdered.’

Jenny clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Mr Jones, oh my goodness! Do they know who he was?’

‘He was identified as Julian Forbes, an ex-pupil of the school.’