The VIP fans gasped as one it seemed, amazed to be in the actual room where genius had occurred. Rosalind lingered in the doorway, apparently reluctant to enter the room. By contrast, Caro was running her fingers across the books on the shelves, murmuring to herself as she touched the covers.

The shelves weren’t only home to books. Each also held trinkets and keepsakes, all free from dust and decay. Someone looked after this room very well.

‘This is the study where Lettice wrote almost all of her seventy-nine books and short stories,’ Isobel said, as they all gazed around the space where the magic happened. ‘On the shelves are first editions of most of her books, as well as some important memorabilia connected to her career.’ It sounded like she was reciting a script. Posy supposed she must have given this tour plenty of times in the past.

According to the back cover of the biography in her bag, Lettice Davenport had died in 1990, two years before Posy had even been born, and she’d been writing almost to the very end. Which, given that she was a golden age crime author back in the thirties, meant she’d been working well past the usual retirement age.

Rosalind glided across the room to take a seat in the chair behind the desk, swivelling it round to face the window instead of Isobel and the group. From where she stood, though, Posy could see the look of relief that flickered across her face as she sat. There had been an awful lot of steps up to the attic, and Rosalind was getting on a bit …

Actors and writers. Both professions where you only retired when no one wanted you anymore.

What was the last thing she’d seen Rosalind King in, anyway?

She was being catty, now. Rosalind could only be sixty or so. But still …

Posy tuned back in to whatever Isobel was talking about – something to do with the inspiration for Lettice’s first book, she thought. But she couldn’t keep her attention from straying back to Rosalind, and to Caro.

The other two Dahlias. An exclusive club, sure, but one Posy knew she needed to earn membership to. Watching them, studying them, would help.

It was how she’d always approached developing a character – watching people. Her most famous role – as the teenage princess, Marissa, in three increasingly dreadful movies – had been based on a woman she’d watched at a cafe in Paris, sipping coffee, chatting with her friends.

Now, she tucked away in her memory how Caro chattered in low tones to the woman with the blue hair, ignoring Isobel, obviously secure in the knowledge that her stories were more interesting. The way that Rosalind rested one hand on the windowsill, staring out towards the gardens at the rear of the house. Posy angled her own hand and placed it on the nearest shelf, her neck twisted to look half over her shoulder.