It was clear neither of them knew what he or she was saying. Melrose still stood. Jury pushed him down. “Listen: you’re staying here. I’ll go to Watermeadows and let you know what’s happened. But you stay here.”

The doorbell rang again, and Ruthven ushered in Sydney Cooke.

Sydney looked around at the faces registering varying degrees of shock and took a step backwards. “Have I come at a bad time?”

Since Melrose could only sit there looking stupefied, Richard Jury went to Sydney.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Cooke. My name’s Richard Jury. And you’ve walked in on a little village crisis. Not to worry, though. It’ll all be resolved shortly. And as I, myself, am supposed to help out this resolution, I now must leave for a little while. In the meantime, Lord Ardry!”

Melrose saw that snap-out-of-it look and snapped out of it as Jury said good-bye and took his leave.

“Sydney. I’m so sorry … Let me introduce you.” Which he did. “What will you have to drink?”

Sydney, not much of a drinker, said, “What do you have on offer?”

They all thought that very rich indeed.

10

As promised, Jury rang Melrose from Watermeadows:

“Now listen, friend: I’m giving you the bare bones; you will wait on the details until I get back. Understood?”

“But—”

“Understood?”

“All right.”

“Flora Flood was not shot. She’s not the victim.”

Melrose heaved a sigh of relief.

“She’s the perp.”

“Wha—”

“Flora Flood was the shooter. A man’s dead. You’re having dinner, right?” When Melrose said yes, they were, Jury went on. “When you’re finished, see that everyone goes home. I’ll be back straightaway and I don’t want to make a report in public.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Melrose as he dropped the receiver, with a little thud, back in the cradle.

When he went back to the dining room, he faced a barrage of questions from everybody but Sydney Cooke, who was sitting on his right. “You know as much as I do, so feel free to fire away.” He regretted the expression the moment it was out of his mouth.

It made no difference to his guests that Melrose could supply no details. The bare bones were enough to keep them talking away through the roast beef, the pudding, the cognac, the coats, the good-byes.

But Jury did not return straightaway; he was too busy soaking up the crime scene.

“She claims she didn’t do it,” said Ian Brierly, the DCI with the Northamptonshire police, “even though the gun was in her hand, according to the cook, who’d come through from the kitchen to find out what was going on, what all the disturbance was about.” Brierly shrugged and flipped a notebook shut. “Go figure.”

“I’d rather not have to. Is the identity of the victim equally ambiguous?”