Benton was interested to see that the rest of the company had taken time to dress appropriately for an occasion on which it would be more prudent to show respect and grief than apprehension. Shirts were crisply pressed, slacks and tweeds had taken the place of country corduroy or denim. Jumpers and cardigans looked as if they had been recently unfolded. Helena Cressett was elegant in slim-fitting trousers in a fine black-and-white check topped with a black turtleneck cashmere jumper. Her face was drained of colour, so that even the soft lipstick she was wearing seemed an ostentatious mark of defiance. Trying not to fix his eyes on her, Benton thought, That face is pure Plantagenet, and was surprised to discover that he found her beautiful.

The three chairs at the mahogany eighteenth-century desk were empty and were obviously placed there for the police. They seated themselves, and Chandler-Powell took his stance opposite, close to Miss Cressett. All their eyes turned to him, although Benton was aware that their thoughts were with the tall dark-haired man on his right. It was he who dominated the room. But they were there with the consent of Chandler-Powell; this was his house, his library, and subtly he made this plain.

He said, his voice calm and authoritative, “Commander Dalgliesh has asked for the use of this room so that he and his officers can see and question us together. I think you’ve all met Mr. Dalgliesh, Detective Inspector Miskin and Detective Sergeant Benton-Smith. I’m not here to make a speech. I just want to say that what happened here last night has appalled all of us. It is now our duty to co-operate fully with the police in their investigation. Obviously we can’t hope that this tragedy will remain unknown outside the Manor. Answering the press and other media enquiries will be handled by experts, and I’m asking you all now not to speak to anyone outside these walls, at least for the present. Commander Dalgliesh, would you like to take over?”