I don’t understand. Have we reached the final scene? He arranges the armchairs of the library suitably. He plans to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, so he wants the chairs in a semicircle. That way, everyone can see him walking and thinking.

‘Are you going to solve our situation?’ I ask. I open the curtains a crack.

The detective bows lightly. He takes off his dark overcoat and places it carefully on the back of a chair. Then he adjusts his sleeves and straightens his bow tie. He must feel hot in that outfit. He’s even got spats on over his shoes, and it’s summer now.

‘Dear child. All will be clear once we’ve got our facts in order,’ he assures me. He raises his fat index finger. He looks chubbier in real life than on TV.

‘So. Was there frost in the night before the fatality?’

‘No way! It was the start of the summer holidays!’

‘But there was ice on the ground?’

‘Dad said it was glass.’

‘But it was ice, n’est-ce pas? You felt it with your hand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Très intéressant…An intriguing case!’

The Belgian swivels round and walks in front of the chairs. Then he stops before me and wags his finger.

‘You like skiing, don’t you?’

‘What?’

‘You’re good at skiing? You were second in a children’s skiing race. You used to ski on an icy lake with your mother?’

Sweat gleams on his forehead, but he doesn’t stop to wipe it off now, not in the middle of an important scene. I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about. It’s summer at the moment; wasps are buzzing among the leaves of the creeper and he’s just standing there in his spats, gaping.

‘Ice fell from the sky! It turned Mum’s head into pulp! You know nothing about this!’

‘My dear child…’

‘Your detective stories don’t even have children in them!’ I shout. ‘They’re all grown-ups! You’re wrong – you know nothing about this!’

He goes quiet.

‘This is a deed committed by an evil man,’ he mutters slowly, stroking his moustache. ‘We haven’t got much time. If my suspicion is correct, we have to get you to a place of safety – and fast. Hastings!’ He looks around, but Hastings hasn’t yet found his way to the library. ‘To the post office! Have the Christmas cards been sent?’

I shake my head.

‘You made the cards by hand, n’est-ce pas? A snowflake, an elf, an angel, oui? I need the addresses – all the addresses! Quite right – you’ve guessed: the angels! Those cruel messengers. And if it is as I think it is, what I seek is among those addresses!’

The Belgian detective puffs out his chest and pats his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.