She found Rosalind apart from the group, standing in the doorway to the next room. Marcus, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen – neither were Anton or Kit. But Libby stood near the dollhouse, beside a woman with bright blue hair and tattoos down both arms. She’d definitely been with the VIP delegates; blue hair wasn’t a common Golden Era affectation, even in perfect victory rolls like hers was. Her thirties-style skirt suit, red lipstick and seamed stockings meant that, even with the hair, she looked more like she belonged here than Posy did.

Posy’s attention focused back on Libby as a thought occurred. Libby would know who had advance copies of the script – before the stars, even. She’d also have one herself. Libby could have sent the note … and if she hadn’t she could help her narrow down who could have.

Posy was about to make her way down to talk to Libby, when a sudden rush of air alerted her that she wasn’t alone on the staircase. As she turned to see who was there, a young woman with long, strawberry blonde hair and dressed in what was definitely not period costume, crashed into Posy’s shoulder on her way past.

‘Sorry!’ the girl sang back, waving a wristband-less arm in apology, but not stopping. Posy guessed she had to be one of the family. Hadn’t Clementine mentioned a granddaughter?

Just then, Clementine appeared from the room behind Rosalind, a smiling older woman in a perfectly tailored skirt suit and pearls beside her.

The girl from the stairs approached her, only to be rebuffed with a look, and a few words that Posy couldn’t hear. They were easy enough to lipread, however, even though the woman’s smile stayed firmly in place. Not now. Yep, that looked like a grandmother and granddaughter relationship to her.

‘Are we all here?’ Clementine asked, her gaze flickering from the assembled crowd and her ever-present clipboard. ‘Great. Then I’ll hand over to you, Isobel.’

The older woman smiled patiently as the chatter died down and people turned to face her. ‘Welcome, everyone, to Aldermere Hall. I’m Isobel Davenport, the wife of Hugh Davenport, the nephew of the author Lettice Davenport. And in case you’re finding all that a little confusing—’ A tinkling laugh, echoed by the small group. ‘—we’re going to start our tour at the family tree on the wall over there.’

Posy turned dutifully, along with everyone else, to take in the elegantly inked scroll-style hanging that had pride of place beside the doorway to the drawing room beyond. It was hard to make out all the details further up, but she managed to pick out Lettice’s name, as well as her nephew’s, right at the bottom of the scroll.