“Oh? Ruthven, ask Martha to step in, will you, and tell my aunt about dinner.”

“Certainly, sir.” With a little smile Ruthven swanned out of the room.

Melrose got Strether a whisky, as he looked to be on the verge of a seizure.

In another moment here was Martha, her usually snow-white apron smeared with something, Melrose guessed olive oil. He asked her to explain the main dish. Melrose knew Ruthven would have told her about the Agatha contretemps and Martha would have made preparations. “Yes, my lord? You wanted to know how the hagfish was coming along. Not much pleasure to prepare, it wasn’t, but with a dusting of flour and a few dashes of salt, it doesn’t look too bad.”

Agatha, who had looked sick, looked sicker. “Never mind, Melrose. We neither of us will be staying.”

“Oh, what a pity. So it’ll just be the five of us, Martha, assuming that Mr. Trueblood and Miss Demorney are not put off by hagfish.”

Martha curtsied and turned and left just as the doorbell rang, and Ruthven went off to answer.

Melrose heard the voices of Trueblood and Diane Demorney.

Trueblood wore a misty grey suit, muted tones of blue, green and yellow in shirt and tie, and looked like a Tahitian dawn. Diane was wearing white.

Hellos all round. “Agatha, old sweat, didn’t expect to see you here, not with Melrose serving haggis.”

How wonderful, Trueblood falling in without knowing what he was falling into.

“Hagfish, Marshall, not haggis.”

“Sounds equally awful,” said Diane, white making her black hair blacker.

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Strether, the uninvited. “We won’t be staying.”

“Ah,” said Trueblood, drawing out the pitiful syllable. “Too bad.”

“Oh, but we didn’t tell you our news,” said Agatha.

“Engaged? Married?” Melrose wanted to add “having a baby,” but that might exceed the bounds of taste. Strether would have protested had he not been busying himself searching for the decanter.

Diane laughed a spray of vodka through her nose as Agatha looked furious.

“But that’s usually what people mean,” said Trueblood, “by ‘our news.’”

“Mr. Trueblood, if you don’t mind!” said Agatha.

“What’s the news?” said Jury, the adult in the room.

Agatha simpered. “You mean Scotland Yard doesn’t even know?”

She would drag this out as long as possible if someone didn’t stop her. “None of us knows, Agatha. What is it?”

“A shooting.”

“Who? Where?”

“Watermeadows.”

“What?” Melrose surged from his chair.

“Yes. Miss Flood? That her name?” said Strether, still holding up his glass and waiting for the world to fill it.

Melrose gave him a lethal look. That such news should be delivered by such a person made him want to grab the poker. “Are you saying Miss Flood has been shot?”