‘It’s a privilege to see them,’ his wife added.

Mollified, Isobel continued. ‘Now, on this shelf we have some of the figures she used in the dollhouse downstairs.’

The figures were creepy, Posy decided, moving away to study the other shelves. There were yellowing books on poisons and anatomy, what looked like the knot from a noose, a small bottle with a poison sticker on the front, and even a line of bullets in front of a shelf of hardboiled detective fiction.

‘Oh! Is this The Hat?’ Caro asked. Posy glanced up to see the second Dahlia perching a grey cloche hat on her head at a rakish angle, and posing with her lips pursed into a kiss, before laughing. ‘Lettice wore this hat in every one of her author photos, didn’t she?’ Caro passed the hat on to the woman in tweed to try, who duly passed it around the rest of the group while Isobel tried desperately to get it back where it belonged on top of the bookcase.

Posy continued her own inspection of the room. There was also a full shelf of Lettice’s own books. Checking to ensure that no one was watching her, Posy pulled out the second book on the shelf, Never Underestimate A Lady, the one that Clementine had said featured the China Room. She flicked through, but couldn’t immediately find a reference – although the back cover showed a picture of the author, wearing the same hat Caro was handing around so carelessly.

When Isobel began to usher everyone out of the room again, Posy slipped the book into her bag to study when she was alone. She’d nip back later and return it.

Posy hurried to catch up to the others, and realised that she wasn’t the only one lagging behind. Rosalind still stood by the window, staring out at the gardens.

‘Are you coming, Rosalind?’ Isobel asked from the doorway.

Rosalind blinked, shaking her head slightly. ‘Of course.’

Curious, Posy glanced out of the window as she followed Rosalind out, and saw a smaller, secluded garden, away from the fete-like atmosphere of the front lawns. Flowers and greenery were planted in a circular pattern, with a bench at the centre, where two people sat.

She recognised Clementine by her olive suit and the mustard silk scarf around her neck – funny, she hadn’t realised the organiser hadn’t joined them on the tour. It took her a moment longer to realise that the older man sitting with her was Hugh Davenport.

She couldn’t see his face, but from the way he stared at his hands, his head bowed and salt and pepper hair silvering in the sunlight, she guessed that whatever they were discussing was serious.

She wondered if Rosalind knew what it was.

Chapter Six