She knew that moment, too, Rosalind realised. From before. When there’d been nothing she could put her finger on, but she’d known there was something wrong. And then he’d told her about Isobel …

‘Why me?’ Rosalind rubbed a hand across her forehead, a poor salve against the headache forming there.

‘You’re his oldest friend—’

‘You’re his wife!’

Isobel shook her head. ‘Yes. But you’re … you’ve always been … something more.’

The cold hit Rosalind’s lungs, stealing the warm summer air she’d been breathing.

They’d never talked about it. Never even hinted at it. If Isobel knew of the relationship between Rosalind and Hugh and had not once given her a clue that she suspected … she was a better actress than Rosalind had given her credit for.

‘You matter to him. He trusts you, and he listens to you.’ Isobel’s smile was sad. ‘It has to be you. He’ll tell you the truth.’

But what if I don’t want to hear it?

Rosalind let out a long breath, and nodded.

‘Thank you,’ Isobel said, relief in her voice. ‘I know … of course he had nothing to do with, well … the important thing is that you make sure there’s nothing for the police to find out. Right?’

Her shoulders relaxed, instead of hunched up around her jaw, Isobel turned to head for the house, her hands swinging loosely at her sides.

Rosalind hesitated. ‘Isobel?’

She turned, her usual smile back in place, seemingly surprised that there was anything more to say.

‘Do you … do you really think Hugh could know anything about Clementine’s death?’ Even now, she couldn’t bring herself to say ‘involved with’. Let alone ‘caused’. ‘Or are you worried the police might think he did?’

Because that made more sense. Isobel’s attachment to the family reputation, their social standing … any hint that Hugh might have been having an affair with a young murder victim would put all that at risk. She might be more concerned about that than the fact he was having an affair to begin with, now she thought about it.

But Isobel’s reply went one step further. ‘Does it matter? The important thing is that nothing gets out.’

Rosalind watched her walk away, more unsettled than ever.

‘Murder makes everyone selfish.’ Dahlia’s words, but she heard them in Caro’s voice, not her own, and she saw Posy’s melancholy eyes as she spoke them.

But then the VIP delegates descended from the terrace to intercept Isobel, and Rosalind hurried to catch up, in time to hear Heather demanding, ‘We want our phones back. Now.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘What are you doing?’ Johnnie asked.

Dahlia replied without opening her eyes. ‘I’m investigating.’

‘You look like you’re taking a nap in an armchair.’