‘No, it doesn’t.’ Posy’s spine was straight as she sat up on the window seat, alert and keen despite the lateness – or earliness – of the hour. She reminded Rosalind of an Irish setter her father had been particularly fond of when she was a child. ‘Marcus’s murder – that was planned. Coordinated, even. Someone had to take the time to find out about his special tea, to get hold of the poisonous flower and sugar it … that’s not like whacking someone on the head.’

‘They took advantage of the set-up, too,’ Caro mused. She’d pulled herself up to rest against the padded headboard of Rosalind’s bed, looking like a worn 1930s shop girl after too good a night out. ‘The whole multi-course tasting menu, like in the book. They’d planned this.’

‘But it might not have been the same person who attacked Caro tonight.’ Posy didn’t make it sound like a question, more a confirmation that they were all on the same page.

‘Whoever it was, they probably did do for Clementine, since they found her body near the same place they tried to whack me,’ Caro said, matter-of-factly. ‘But not Marcus. That’s a whole different M.O. Right?’

‘Right,’ Rosalind agreed. ‘Which means, our investigation isn’t over yet, like we agreed. Detective Chief Inspector Larch might want to take over this whole debacle, but I’m not sure I trust him to get it right, are you?’

Posy shook her head.

‘Dahlia wouldn’t be,’ Caro said.

‘So neither are we three Dahlias.’ Rosalind smiled, feeling the muscles in her cheeks move as it stretched, wide and real, across her face.

Three Dahlia Livelys. Working together.

It felt better than she’d imagined it could. As if she were stepping out of her own history at Aldermere and into something new and exciting.

Something deadly, admittedly. But something.

‘I guess we’d better try to get some sleep, then, if we’re going to solve a murder in the morning.’ Posy shifted from the window seat to the sofa and stretched across the cushions. ‘At least the wallpaper’s more restful in here.’

She was asleep in moments, the sleep of the young, the unburdened. For all the tabloid stories about her exploits, she still seemed impossibly innocent to Rosalind.

‘Put a blanket over her?’ Caro said, in an oddly maternal voice. ‘She’ll get cold. No insulation on her, is there?’

‘No.’ Rosalind picked up the satin coverlet from the end of the bed and laid it over Posy, then turned to Caro. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that you don’t snore?’

‘A lady never snores, darling.’ Caro shimmied down the mattress, pulling more than half of the duvet over to her side and wrapping it around her. ‘They merely breathe a little louder.’