‘I think … no, I’m sure.’ Isobel checked over her shoulder at the library door, then met Rosalind’s gaze, her blue eyes wide and wet, and Rosalind felt time slowing, never quite enough to halt what was coming next. ‘Hugh is having an affair.’

Rosalind’s heart stopped beating, the sound of the mantel clock replacing its steady thump with its own sluggish tick. None of the clocks in this house were ever right, Rosalind remembered, as if that mattered at all. Time wasn’t important in a house stuck forever in the golden age of crime.

Her senses caught up with her in a whoosh, carrying her heartbeat along with it.

‘I’m sure you’re wrong,’ she said, shaking her head as if to rid it of the very idea. ‘Besides, aren’t we too old for all that nonsense now?’

Isobel snorted. ‘You and I might be, but you know it’s always different for men.’

Everything was, in Rosalind’s experience. But especially this.

‘Hugh loves you. He chose you.’ Rosalind swallowed the pain in the words. Isobel was her friend and it was almost forty years ago, now. ‘You have the perfect life here together. Why would he cheat?’

Isobel didn’t answer immediately, and before Rosalind could press her, there was a knock on the library door.

‘Mrs Davenport?’ A pretty twenty-something in jeans and a t-shirt appeared in the doorway, her hair tied back in a simple ponytail. She had a clipboard in her hands, and a harried look about her. Rosalind recognised her as the convention assistant Marcus had sent to sweet-talk her into taking part in the event, way back in the spring.

‘Yes, Clementine?’ Isobel turned, her smile back in place, even if her eyes were still sad. ‘What is it?’

‘So sorry to disturb you, but the catering staff would like to run through the menus for tomorrow’s dinner with you, if you have the time? There have been a few last-minute changes, I believe, and there are some questions about the wine pairings, particularly.’ Her soft, Scottish accent was apologetic, but insistent.

Isobel sighed, her smile never wavering. ‘Of course. I’ll come now. Sorry, Rosalind, I won’t be long. Perhaps you could go and bother Hugh in his study? If it’s wine pairings they want to talk about, he’ll be far more use than me.’

‘Of course.’ Rosalind watched her friend walk away with the younger woman before she followed her out, through the doors that led to the dining room.

Aldermere felt less welcoming alone. Despite all the activity she knew was going on outside, and down in the lower ground-floor kitchens, as she moved through the empty dining room – its table already set for sixteen – she felt alone in the house. A ghost, trapped in her own history.

She remembered so many days here.