It hadn’t, of course. It had started with Libby, and the locket, and the picture in Posy’s book. But that wasn’t as dramatic.

Rosalind stepped forward, out of the crowd of suspects, to share the telling of the story. ‘Lettice Davenport left everything she owned to her nephew Hugh – and asked only one thing in return. That he kept Aldermere House, and her legacy, in the family. But Hugh has no children of his own, no one related by blood. He’s the last of the Davenport line, the last name inked on that family tree in the hall that Isobel showed us that first morning. So everything would go to Isobel, Serena and Juliette.’

‘Until a young woman arrived at Aldermere, years after Lettice herself had died, claiming to be her granddaughter. And she had proof; a birth certificate, a locket, and a willingness to take a DNA test.’ Caro’s smile was crocodile sharp. ‘If Clementine had proved to be Lettice’s granddaughter, to honour his aunt’s last wishes, Hugh would have to write Isobel and the others out of the will.’

Hugh stared at Caro in horror, and Rosalind could almost see the cogs turning in his brain. She’d told him she wasn’t the only one who knew, but she didn’t think he’d realised what that meant.

Until now.

‘But nobody knew about that. Nobody. Clementine promised.’ Hugh sounded desperate, the anger drained away like the colour in his face.

‘Clementine lied,’ Rosalind said, succinctly. ‘She told Marcus. And she told one other person, who told us.’

‘Who?’ Hugh asked, but Rosalind shook her head. It wasn’t time for that yet.

‘Clementine wrote you a letter, didn’t she?’ Caro asked Hugh. ‘Explaining who she was and asking you to contact her. But you claimed you never received it.’

‘I didn’t! If I had …’ Hugh shook his head, sadly. ‘I regretted my behaviour towards her father. Not immediately, I’ll admit that. But as I got older. As it became clear that, well, that a family of my own blood wasn’t on the cards for me.’

Rosalind watched the faces of his wife and step-granddaughter as he spoke, noting the tightening around Isobel’s eyes, the way Juliette’s jaw hardened as she stared towards the window. How must it feel for them to know that he never really considered them his family, all because of a little bit of blood?

‘If I’d known that Clementine existed, and wanted to know me, I’d have got in touch this time. Will or no will,’ Hugh added, firmly.

‘But you didn’t,’ Caro said. ‘Because someone took that letter. Someone who had reason not to want you to contact Clementine.’