But there was no need for them to rush the post mortem on a bank holiday weekend, as far as the authorities were concerned, and that suited Caro nicely. By the time the police realised that Marcus had been poisoned and launched an investigation, the convention would be over.

Which gave her until Monday night, and the end of the convention, to figure out who was behind it all. Who was playing with them.

Who knew her secrets, and what it would take for her to keep them.

And when she found the murderer, she could turn them over to the police, and prove once again that intelligent women who paid attention got a hell of a lot more done than the people who belittled and undermined them.

Dahlia would approve of that.

Caro couldn’t imagine that anyone slept well that night – clear conscience or guilty. She wondered that more of the guests hadn’t tried to leave yet, but she supposed it was down to human nature. The parts of them that didn’t want to believe that Marcus could have suffered anything worse than a heart attack wouldn’t, after that initial moment of terror, until the police confirmed it. For the fans, this was a long looked forward to weekend they didn’t want to give up, and for the professionals like her, well, this was their livelihood. Easier to convince themselves there was nothing untoward going on than try and find transportation away from this place in the middle of the night.

Even she, who had Susie waiting for her in the stables, sidecar at the ready to carry her bags, wouldn’t leave. She was living a real-life murder mystery. How could she walk away from that without solving it?

Which didn’t mean that she’d slept peacefully – or much at all, after Marcus’s death. And, judging by the dark circles under others’ eyes at breakfast, neither had they.

Breakfast was being served on the terrace, looking out over the gardens where the event marquees and stalls stood, bright white against the green of the trees and the sharp blue August skies. Caro passed two tables pushed together, where Heather, Harry, Felicity and Ashok were sitting huddled over the coffee cups. She smiled and waved, receiving only weak greetings in return.

Continuing to the other end of the terrace, Caro found Rosalind and Posy seated together – somewhat uncomfortably – on a small bistro table, a pot of coffee on the surface between them, untouched. The basket of pastries, however, looked to be going down steadily.

‘So,’ Caro said, throwing herself into the third seat at the table. ‘Where do we start?’