“Forgive me, but in the shock of reading these letters and—realising their inferences, have you considered the effect any publicity would have on yourself?”

“What do you mean? What shock? Do you suppose I did not know he had mistresses?”

“I’ve no idea, I’m sure,” said poor Ronald unhappily.

“Of course I knew,” she said composedly. “That seems to me to have nothing to do with the point we are discussing. I knew he had been murdered. I thought at first that these other people—” She made a slight gesture towards the neat little pile on the desk. “Now I find he had bitter enemies nearer to him than that.” Her hand closed over the letters on her knee. “He has been murdered. Probably by this nurse or by Sir John Phillips; possibly by both of them in collaboration. I shall demand an inquest.”

“An inquest! You know, I doubt very much if you would be given permission.”

“To whom does one apply?”

“One can’t just order an inquest,” Ronald said evasively.

“Who can do so, Mr. Jameson?”

“The—well, the coroner for the district, I imagine.”

“Or the police?”

Ronald winced.

“I suppose so—yes.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Jameson.”

Ronald, in a panic, took himself off to the House.

Lady O’Callaghan put a jade paper-weight on the little heap of letters and opened the telephone directory. The number she wanted was printed in large letters on a front page. She dialed it, and was answered immediately.

“Is that New Scotland Yard?” she asked, pitching her voice in a sort of serene falsetto. “It is Lady O’Callaghan speaking. My husband was Sir Derek O’Callaghan, the late Home Secretary. I want to speak to someone in authority, in reference to the death of my husband. No, not on the telephone. Perhaps someone would call? Immediately, if possible. Thank you.”

She hung up the receiver and leant back in her chair. Then she rang for Nash, who came in looking like a Stilton in mourning.

“Nash,” she said, “an officer from Scotland Yard is calling in ten minutes. It is in reference to the funeral. I wish to speak to him myself. If Miss O’Callaghan calls, will you tell her I am unable to see her? Show the officer in here when he comes.”

“Very good, m’lady,” breathed Nash and withdrew.

Cicely O’Callaghan then went to the room where her husband lay, awaiting his last journey down Whitehall. She was an Anglo-Catholic, so candles burned, small golden plumes, at the head and foot of the coffin. The room, a large one, was massed heavily with flowers. It smelt like a tropical island, but was very cold. A nun from the church that the O’Callaghans attended knelt at a little distance from the coffin. She did not look up when Lady O’Callaghan came in.