The answer surprised Benton. Most suspects, unless they actively enjoy involvement with violent death, are anxious to put as much distance between themselves and the crime as possible. It was convenient to have Boyton here in the cottage, but he had expected his suspect to protest that they couldn’t legally hold him and that he needed to get back to London.

He asked, “How long have you known Rhoda Gradwyn and how did you meet?”

“We met about six years ago, after a not very successful fringe-theatre production of Waiting for Godot. I’d just left drama school. We met at a drinks party afterwards. A gruesome occasion, but a lucky one for me. We talked. I asked her to have dinner the following week, and to my surprise she agreed. After that we met from time to time, not frequently, but always with pleasure, at least as far as I’m concerned. I’ve told you, she was my friend, a dear friend, and one of those who helped me when there was no acting job and I had no lucrative ideas. Not often and not much. She always paid for dinner when we met. I can’t make you understand, and I don’t see why I should try. It’s not your business. I loved her. I don’t mean I was in love with her, I mean I loved her. I depended on seeing her. I liked to think she was in my life. I don’t think she loved me, but she usually saw me when I asked. I could talk to her. It wasn’t maternal and it wasn’t about sex, but it was love. And now one of those bastards at the Manor has killed her and I’m not leaving here until I know who. And I’m not answering any more questions about her. What we felt, we felt. It’s nothing to do with why or how she died. And if I could explain, you wouldn’t understand. You’d only laugh.” He was beginning to cry, making no attempt to stem the flow of tears.

Benton said “Why should we laugh about love?” and thought, Oh God, it sounds like some ghastly ditty. Why should we laugh about love? Why, oh why, should we laugh about love? He could almost hear a cheerfully banal tune insinuating itself into his brain. It might do well at the Eurovision Song Contest. Looking across at Boyton’s disintegrating face, he thought, The emotion is real enough, but what exactly is it?

He asked more gently, “Can you tell us what you did from the moment you arrived at Stoke Cheverell? When was that?”

Boyton managed to control himself, and more quickly than Benton had expected. Looking at Boyton’s face, he wondered whether this swift alteration was the actor demonstrating his range of emotions. “On Thursday night at about ten o’clock. I drove down from London.”