“Of course I’m not among them. I haven’t been inside until now. The policeman at the door wouldn’t let me in.”

Dalgliesh said, “That was on my orders.”

Chandler-Powell said, “And earlier on mine. Miss Gradwyn asked for absolute privacy. I’m sorry you’ve been caused this distress, Mr. Boyton, but I’m afraid I was so busy here with the police officers and the pathologist that I’d overlooked the fact that you were a guest in the cottage. Have you had lunch? Dean and Kimberley can get you something to eat.”

“Of course I haven’t had lunch. When have you ever fed me when I’ve been in Rose Cottage? And I don’t want your bloody food. Don’t patronise me!”

He drew himself up and, stretching out a shaking arm, pointed his finger at Chandler-Powell, then, realising perhaps that, dressed as he was, the histrionic stance made him look ridiculous, he dropped his arm and gazed round the company in mute misery.

Dalgliesh said, “Mr. Boyton, as you were a friend of Miss Gradwyn’s, what you have to tell us will be helpful, but not now.”

The words, quietly spoken, were a command. Boyton turned away, his shoulders drooping. Then he swung back and spoke directly to Chandler-Powell. “She came here to have that scar removed, to make a new life for herself. She trusted you and you killed her, you murdering bastard!”

Without waiting for a response, he was gone. DC Warren, who had stood inscrutably throughout, followed him out and closed the door firmly. There were five seconds of silence, during which Benton sensed that the mood had changed. Someone at last had spoken that sonorous word. The unbelievable, the grotesque, the horrifying had at last been acknowledged.

Dalgliesh said, “Shall we get on? Miss Cressett, you received Miss Gradwyn at the door; can we take it from there?”