Dean had told her that Mr. Chandler-Powell had spoken to everyone in the library. He had said that the patients’ wing and the lift were out of bounds but that people should carry on normally as far as possible. The police would want to question everyone, and in the meantime he stressed that they should avoid talking among themselves about Miss Gradwyn’s death. Kim knew that they would be discussing it, not in groups but in pairs: the Westhalls, who had returned to Stone Cottage; Miss Cressett with Mrs. Frensham; and surely Mr. Chandler-Powell with Sister. Mog would probably keep silent—he could if it paid him—and she couldn’t imagine anyone discussing Miss Gradwyn with Sharon. She and Dean certainly wouldn’t if she came into the kitchen. But she and Dean had talked—quietly, as if that could somehow make their words innocuous. And now Kim couldn’t resist again going over the same ground.

“Suppose the police ask me exactly what happened when I took up Mrs. Skeffington’s tea, every single detail, must I tell them?”

Dean was trying to be patient. She heard it in his voice. “Kim, we’ve settled that. Yes, you tell them. If they ask a direct question, we have to answer and tell the truth, otherwise we’re in trouble. But what happened isn’t important. You didn’t see anyone or talk to anyone. It can’t have anything to do with Miss Gradwyn’s death. You could make mischief and for no good reason. Keep quiet until they ask.”

“And you’re sure about the door?”

“I’m sure. But if the police start badgering me about it, I’ll probably end up being sure of nothing.”

Kim said, “It’s very quiet, isn’t it? I thought someone would be here by now. Ought we to be here by ourselves?”

Dean said, “We were told to get on with our work. The kitchen is where we work. And this is where you belong, here with me.”

He came over soundlessly and took her into his arms. They stood immobile for a minute, unspeaking, and she was comforted. Releasing her, he said, “Anyway, we ought to think about lunch. It’s already half past one. So far all anyone has been able to face is coffee and biscuits. They’ll want something hot sooner or later, and they won’t fancy the casserole.”

The beef casserole had been made the previous day and was ready to reheat in the bottom oven of the Aga. Enough had been made for the whole household, and for Mog when he came in from working in the garden. But now even the rich smell of it would make her sick.

Dean said, “No, they won’t want anything heavy. I could make pea soup. We’ve got that stock from the hambone, and then perhaps sandwiches, eggs, cheese. . . .” His voice faded.