But now, on Tuesday morning, the fourth day after the murder, he was still at the Manor, his London list postponed and he himself obviously torn between his responsibility to his St. Angela’s patients and the need to support the remaining staff at the Manor. But by Thursday both he and Marcus would have gone. Admittedly they would be back by Sunday morning, but reaction to even a temporary absence was mixed. People already slept behind locked doors, although Candace and Helena had succeeded in dissuading Chandler-Powell from instituting nightly patrols by the police or security team. Most of the residents had convinced themselves that an intruder, probably the owner of the parked car, had killed Miss Gradwyn and it seemed unlikely that he had any interest in another victim. But presumably he still possessed the keys to the west door—a frightening thought. Mr. Chandler-Powell wasn’t a guarantee of safety but he was the owner of the Manor, their go-between with the police, a reassuring authoritative presence. On the other hand, he was obviously irked at time wasted and impatient to be getting on with his job. The Manor would be more peaceful without his restless footsteps, the occasional spats of ill humour. The police were still silent about the progress, if any, of the investigation. The news of Miss Gradwyn’s death had, of course, broken in the media, but to everyone’s relief the reports had been surprisingly short and ambiguous, helped by the competition of a political scandal and a pop star’s particularly acrimonious divorce. Lettie wondered whether some influence on the media had been exerted. But the restraint wouldn’t last for long, and if an arrest were made, the dam would burst and the polluted waters sweep over them.

And now, with no part-time domestic staff, the patients’ section sealed, the telephone frequently on the answerphone and the police presence a daily reminder of that departed presence which was still, in imagination, locked in the silence of death behind that sealed door, it was a comfort to Lettie and, she suspected, to Candace, that there was always work to be done. On Tuesday morning both were at their desks shortly after nine, Lettie sorting through a collection of grocer’s and butcher’s bills, and Candace at the computer. The telephone was on the table before her and now it rang.

Candace said, “Don’t answer it.”

It was too late. Lettie had already lifted the receiver. She handed it over. “It’s a man. I didn’t catch his name but he sounds agitated. He’s asking for you.”