As one o’clock approached, there was still no news from Commander Dalgliesh or his team. Only four of the household sat down in the dining room for lunch: Mr. Chandler-Powell, Helena, Flavia and Lettie. Candace had asked that a tray for herself and Marcus should be sent up to her room. On operating days Chandler-Powell ate lunch later with his team, if he ate a formal meal at all, but at other times, as today, he joined the party in the dining room. Lettie sometimes felt uneasily that the small household should eat together, but Dean, she knew, would have considered it demeaning to his status as chef to be expected to lunch or dine with those he served. He and Kim ate later in their own apartment, with Sharon.

The meal was simple, a first course of minestrone followed by a pork-and-duck terrine, baked potatoes and a winter salad. When Flavia, helping herself to salad, asked whether anyone knew when they could expect the police to appear, Lettie broke in with what seemed to her an unnatural nonchalance.

“They didn’t say when we were at Stone Cottage. I expect they’re busy examining the freezer. Perhaps they’ll take it away. I can’t explain why I lifted the lid. We were on our way out, and it was an impulsive gesture, perhaps no more than curiosity.”

Flavia said, “It’s just as well you did. He could have been there for days while the police were searching the countryside. After all, unless they suspected they were looking for a body, why would they open the freezer? Why would anybody?”

Mr. Chandler-Powell frowned but didn’t comment. There was a silence, broken by the entrance of Sharon to remove the soup bowls. A period of unaccustomed idleness had proved boring and she had condescended to undertake a limited number of household tasks. At the door she turned and said with, for her, unexpected brightness, “Perhaps there’s a serial murderer loose in the village picking us all off one by one. I read a book by Agatha Christie which deals with that. They were all cut off on this island, and the serial killer was among them. In the end only one was left alive.”

Flavia’s voice was sharp. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sharon. Miss Gradwyn’s death, did that look like the work of a serial murderer? They kill to a pattern. And why should a mass murderer put a body in a freezer? But perhaps your serial killer has an obsession with freezers and is even now looking for one to accommodate his next victim.”