“I hope so, Queenie. I think the murderer is only targeting specific people and he doesn’t know us, so I have to assume we’re safe. Just don’t go wandering around outside.”

“You bet yer boots I won’t, miss,” she said. “I ain’t that stupid.”

At that moment there was a thunderous knock at the front door. I urged Queenie to hurry with the fastenings on my dress, then I went out to peer over the gallery to the hallway below.

“Telegram for a Mr. O’Mara,” I heard the boy’s voice announce.

I went to find Darcy and we stood in the front hall together while he opened the telegram. It said, COLONEL RATHBONE RETIRED BENGAL LANCERS TEN YEARS AGO.

“We should call the police,” I said.

Darcy shook his head. “We’ll confront him before dinner. At least hear what the man has to say for himself.”

“Isn’t that a little dangerous? He might be a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I hardly think he’d be able to do anything surrounded by so many people. And Monty, Badger, myself, we’re all pretty strong.”

“What if he has a gun?”

“In his dinner jacket pocket? Besides, he hasn’t shot anybody yet.”

“Well, all right,” I said, “only be careful.”

“Pot calling the kettle black.” He smiled at me.

One by one the dinner guests assembled for sherry. They stood together in little groups, talking in low voices. Hardly the loud, laughing group of a few days ago. It was clear that everyone wanted to go home.

“The memsahib was all for leaving tonight,” I heard the colonel say. “But I told her I’d never run away from a charging tiger in Bengal. Why should we run away now?”

“Quite right,” the countess said. “My sentiments exactly. I will not allow one horrible little convict to spoil my holiday. Who knows if I will ever have another Christmas like this one?”

Darcy and I moved into the group. “So when did you last face a charging tiger, Colonel?” Darcy asked.

“When? Let me see. Not that long ago.”

“Was it at the London Zoo?” Darcy asked.

“What the devil are you talking about?” The colonel’s face flushed red.

“Because you are an imposter, sir,” Darcy said. “I just received a telegram from the War Office. Colonel Rathbone left the Bengal Lancers ten years ago.”

I expected him to bluster, but he deflated like a balloon. “Quite right,” he said. “No sense in pretending any longer. I did it for the memsahib, you see.” He turned to look at his wife, who was sitting with Mrs. Upthorpe on the sofa. Her face was a mask of granite. “She hasn’t been at all well. In fact, those doctor wallahs don’t give her long to live.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “You really were in the Bengal Lancers?”