“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I’m afraid you arrived at an inopportune moment. It’ll be a long time before those two are ready for Claridge’s. Yes, Jeremy said something about expecting the police. You’d better come in. He’s upstairs in the office.”

They passed into the hall. Benton saw through the open door to the left that a small table for two had been set with four glasses in each place and a plethora of knives and forks. The couple were already seated, staring at each other disconsolately.

“I’m Alvin Brent. If you’ll just wait, I’ll pop up and see if Jeremy’s ready. You will be very considerate with him, won’t you? He’s terribly upset. He’s lost a dear, dear friend. But, of course, you’ll know all about that, that’s why you’re here.”

He was about to walk up the stairs but at that moment a figure appeared at the top. He was tall and very thin, with sleek black hair drawn back from a taut, pale face. He was expensively dressed with a careful casualness, which with his dramatic stance gave him the appearance of a male model posed for a camera shoot. His close-fitting black trousers looked immaculate. His tan jacket, unbuttoned, was a design Benton recognised and wished he could afford. His starched shirt was open-necked, and he wore a cravat. His face had been furrowed with anxiety but now the features smoothed with relief.

Coming down to meet them, he said, “Thank God you’ve come. Sorry about the reception. I’ve been frantic. I’ve been told nothing, absolutely nothing, except that Robin’s been found dead. And of course he’d rung to tell me about Rhoda Gradwyn’s death. And now Robin. You wouldn’t be here if it was death by natural causes. I have to know—was it suicide? Did he leave a note?”

They followed him up the stairs and, standing aside, he indicated a room to the left. It was overcrowded and obviously both sitting room and study. A large trestle table before the window held a computer, a fax machine and a rack of filing trays. Three smaller mahogany tables, one with a printer precariously balanced, were crowded with porcelain ornaments, brochures and reference books. There was a large sofa against one wall, but hardly usable since it was covered with box files. Despite the clobber an attempt at order and tidiness had been made. There was only one chair behind the desk, and a small armchair. Jeremy Coxon looked round as if expecting a third to materialise, then went across the hall and came back with a cane-bottomed chair which he placed before the desk. They seated themselves.

Kate said, “There was no note. Would you be surprised if it were suicide?”