‘Bedside lamp. Sorry.’ She did look truly apologetic, Rosalind thought. Whether Caro would appreciate it was another matter. ‘But I wasn’t lying in wait – I was looking for Clemmie, or some sign that she’d been there. I found her clothes, but nothing else, and I started to worry. The curse of the writer’s imagination – I had every possibility swirling round my head. And then I heard the front door open and … I started to panic. I hid behind the bedroom door to start with, but then I realised that meant I was trapped in there with you. The last people my cousin had spoken to at Aldermere, as far as I knew. Clemmie was gone and I didn’t know where or why and … I just knew I had to get out of there. I had to get away before anybody saw me, I had to get out of whatever Clemmie was mixed up in so …’

‘You hit me over the head with a lamp.’ Caro wasn’t letting go of that any time soon.

Libby winced, and nodded. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t really thinking very clearly.’

Posy frowned. ‘Where did you go? I followed you out of the window.’

‘I know. I, well, I hid behind the nearest tree and waited for you to run off. Then I checked on Caro through the window without her seeing me, and once I was sure she was okay, I ran back to the house up the main driveway. I was already in bed when I heard the—the sirens.’

Libby’s voice faltered on the last couple of words, and Rosalind knew they’d got all they could from her for now. Posy put her arm around the scriptwriter, murmuring sympathies to her. Caro moved to her other side to do the same.

But Rosalind couldn’t. She was too busy thinking.

And she didn’t like any of the answers she was coming up with.

‘Who do you think killed your cousin, Libby?’ Rosalind asked, after a moment.

‘Hugh Davenport,’ she answered, immediately. ‘It had to be. He was the one who … who knew everything. And who had most to lose.’

Caro and Posy looked up to see how she reacted, so Rosalind made a point of not reacting at all. She wanted to tell them they were wrong. That the man she loved couldn’t do such a thing.

But how could she when she knew there was a corner of her heart that doubted?

Why couldn’t it have just been a horrible, sordid love affair?

In her pocket, she rolled the miniature doll with the poison bottle between her fingers. If Letty had written this weekend, there would be one more twist in the tale. She’d want them to investigate all avenues. To do Dahlia’s clever, unpredictable mind credit.

But most of all, she’d want them to catch the right guy.