I introduced Hawthorne and explained why we were there. ‘We just need a few minutes,’ I assured him.

‘Well, take a seat. You’ll forgive me talking with my back to you, but I’m doing my make-up.’ He reached for a pad of cotton wool. ‘So, you’re here about poor Harriet, are you?’ He grimaced. I saw the reflection in the mirror. ‘I really shouldn’t say this, but I think someone has done the world a favour. She won’t be missed.’

‘She had a husband and a daughter,’ Hawthorne reminded him.

‘So did Lucrezia Borgia. Forgive me, Mr Hawthorne. If you expect me to feel sorry for her, you’re wasting your time.’ He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘Did you read the other reviews? The Telegraph was excellent. The Guardian didn’t get it at all – but that’s typical. We had a very good audience last night. They thoroughly enjoyed it.’

‘Did you kill her?’ Hawthorne asked.

Jordan stopped with the cotton pad halfway down the long slope of his nose. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It’s just that I understand you called her a monster and threatened to put a knife in her.’ Hawthorne paused just long enough for the words to sink in. ‘And that’s exactly what occurred.’

Jordan scowled. The cotton pad completed its journey. He threw it down and turned round. ‘I hope you haven’t been breaking the confidentialities of the green room, Anthony,’ he exclaimed, and for the first time I heard a trace of an American accent in his voice. It was because he was annoyed. ‘What goes on tour, stays on tour. I thought you’d understand that.’

‘This is a murder investigation,’ Hawthorne said.

‘Well, I won’t deny what I said. But if we’re being direct with each other, I might as well tell you that I wasn’t alone. Anthony, for one, was all for it.’

‘I didn’t say anything!’ I exclaimed.

‘You nodded.’

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘You can ask the others. They all saw you. I said what I said and I may not have meant it, but you nodded your head in total agreement.’

‘You think Anthony killed her?’ Hawthorne asked.

‘I’m not saying that. Not at all. I’m just pointing out that he had as much motive as any of us. She really hated his play!’

‘You know that she was killed with a dagger,’ Hawthorne said.

‘So the police informed me. I spoke to two of them yesterday in this very room. A lady by the name of Cara Grunshaw and her rather kickable sidekick. They were particularly interested in the murder weapon.’ He leaned forward and grabbed the dagger he had been given by Ahmet. He waved it in our direction. ‘As you can see, I still have it. Not the murder weapon! Mine is unsullied! It wasn’t the most generous first-night present in my opinion. Quite tacky and irrelevant to the play. But much as I like Ahmet – and in many ways he is a decent enough chap – he doesn’t have much sense of style.’