Dalgliesh said, “Quiet, reliable and discreet. I’ve no quarrel with that. Where is he now?”

“Outside the bedroom, guarding the body. The household—well, the six most important members, I suppose—are waiting in the great hall. That’s Mr. George Chandler-Powell, who owns the place; his assistant, Mr. Marcus Westhall—he’s a surgeon, so they call him Mr.—his sister, Miss Candace Westhall; Flavia Holland, the sister in charge; Miss Helena Cressett, who’s a kind of housekeeper, secretary and general administrator, as far as I can make out; and Mrs. Letitia Frensham, who does the accounts.”

“An impressive feat of memory, Chief Inspector.”

“Not really, sir. Mr. Chandler-Powell’s a newcomer, but most people hereabouts know who’s at the Manor.”

“Has Dr. Glenister arrived?”

“An hour ago, sir. She’s had tea and done a tour of the garden, had a word with Mog—he’s by way of being the gardener—to tell him he’s over-pruned the viburnum. And now she’s in the hall, unless she’s gone for another walk. A lady very fond of outdoor exercise, I’d say. Well, it makes a change from the smell of corpses.”

Dalgliesh asked, “When did you get here?”

“Twenty minutes after receiving the phone call from Mr. Chandler-Powell. I was getting set to act as chief investigating officer when the Chief Constable rang to tell me that the Yard were taking over.”

“Any thoughts, Inspector?”

Dalgliesh’s question was partly prompted by courtesy. This wasn’t his patch. Time might or might not disclose why the Home Office had taken a hand, but Whetstone’s apparent acceptance of the department’s involvement didn’t mean that he liked it.

“I’d say it’s an inside job, sir. If it is, you’ve got a limited number of suspects, which in my experience doesn’t make the case any easier to crack. Not if they’ve all got their wits about them, which I reckon most of these will have.”

They were approaching the porch. The door opened as if someone had been watching to time exactly the moment of arrival. There could be no doubt about the identity of the man who moved to one side as they entered. He was grave-faced and with the strained pallor of a man in shock, but had lost none of his authority. This was his house, and he was in control both of it and of himself. Without holding out a hand or gazing at Dalgliesh’s subordinates, he said, “George Chandler-Powell. The rest of the party are in the great hall.”