In the three days following Rhoda Gradwyn’s murder, Lettie was struck by how briefly death is allowed to interfere with life. The dead, however they die, are tidied away with decent speed to their designated place, a tray in a hospital mortuary, the undertaker’s embalming room, the pathologist’s table. The doctor may not come when called; the undertaker always does. Meals, however sparse or unconventional, are prepared and eaten, post arrives, telephones ring, bills have to be paid, official forms filled in. Those who mourn, as she in her time had mourned, move like automata into a shadow world in which nothing is real or familiar or seemingly ever will be again. But even they speak, attempt to sleep, raise untasting food to their mouths, continue as if by rote to play their destined part in a drama in which all the other characters seem familiar with their roles.

At the Manor no one pretended to mourn Rhoda Gradwyn. Her death was a shock made more terrible by mystery and fear, but the routine of the Manor went on. Dean continued to cook his excellent meals, although a certain simplicity in the menus suggested that he was paying a perhaps unconscious tribute to death. Kim continued to serve them, although appetite and frank enjoyment seemed a gross insensitivity, inhibiting conversation. Only the coming and going of the police and the presence of the cars of the security team and the caravan in which they ate and slept parked outside the main entrance were an ever-constant reminder that nothing was normal. There had been a spurt of interest and half-shameful hope when Sharon was called for by Inspector Miskin and taken for questioning at the Old Police Cottage. She had returned to say briefly that Commander Dalgliesh was preparing for her to leave the Manor and a friend would be calling for her in three days. In the meantime, she didn’t intend to do any more work. As far as she was concerned, the job was over and they knew where they could shove it. She was tired and upset and couldn’t fucking well wait to get away from the fucking Manor. Now she was going to her room. Sharon had never been heard to utter an obscenity, and the word was as shocking as if it had come from Lettie’s mouth.