“I hate to say it,” said Marshall Trueblood, who didn’t hate to say it at all, “but that ‘intruder’ business is a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“Cliché?” said Joanna Lewes, who had stopped being the French door to come and sit down.

“There’s always an intruder. You should know that; you’ve written enough books.”

Joanna said, “It isn’t a story, Marshall; someone was shot to death. That really happened.”

“But the rest of it could be exactly that: a story, like the intruder bit,” said Trueblood, wiping a spot from his gun.

“You think she was lying?” said Vivian. “And she killed him?”

“That’s the alternative to the intruder story, isn’t it?”

Vivian said, “We don’t have enough facts to draw a conclusion. What would her motive have been, for instance?”

“He was her husband,” said Diane Demorney.

“Her husband? That’s a motive in and of itself?”

“Considering the ones I’ve had, I’d say so.”

Trueblood said, “Look, Dick Scroggs is two heads at least taller than Withersby. Tony Servino was tall. Flora Flood is rather short. Now, if you’re trying to shoot Servino and she’s standing in front of him, why not go for a head shot? Much easier target for this alleged intruder. He aimed for the torso, the chest, supposedly. Aiming at the chest, he would have had to go through Miss Flood.” He looked around the table. “If you take my meaning, for God’s sakes.”

Jury said, “I take it. Flora Flood was the target, not her husband.”

“Good for you.”

“Well, I am with the Met. And where’d you get the details of this crime?”

“From Melrose, who got them from you and DCI Brierly.”

“Brierly wouldn’t be giving out—”

The crime scene charade was followed by Jury’s mobile vibrating in his pocket. It was Macalvie.

“You’re in Northants already? Come to Exeter.”

“Macalvie, I just left.”

“So? Come back. There’s a cathedral here.”

“Northampton has one too.”

“Not with a murder in it.”

Jury was silent.

“You still there?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. You must be curious. Young woman found shot in Exeter Cathedral.”

“In the cathedral? Where?”

“In the nave. If you can beat that—”

“I can’t. But why call me?”

“You’ll see.”

“What will I see?”

“It’s the third one.”

Jury frowned. “You’re not making sense. third one what?”

“Don’t be dense. Murder. Shooting.”

Jury thought for a moment. “If you’re referring to Bryher and Manon Vinet, I believe I count one shooting.”

Trueblood seemed to have heard enough to raise his perfect eyebrows.

As if defending himself against the eyebrows rather than Macalvie’s theory, Jury said, “That’s ridiculously tenuous, Macalvie—”

“God, but I hate that word.”