He looked at their tense faces, each staring into space, consumed in their fears, and decided that any advice would only be overridden by emotion and probably do more harm than good. If they remembered it to begin with, then forgot, it would give the impression of dishonesty.

He kept silent also.

They reached the morgue at ten minutes past four. Robb was already there, pacing restlessly up and down, but he made no comment on the time as they alighted. They were all too eager to complete the business for which they had come to do more than acknowledge each other with the briefest courtesies and then follow Robb inside.

The morgue attendant drew the sheet back from the body, showing only the head.

Lucius drew in his breath sharply and seemed to sway a little on his feet.

Stourbridge let out a soft sigh. He was a soldier, and he must have seen death many times before, and usually of men he had known to a greater or lesser extent, but this was a man of his own household, and murder was different from war. War was not an individual evil. Soldiers expected to kill and be killed. Frequently, they even respected their enemies. There was no hatred involved. The violence was huge and impersonal. It did not make the pain less, or the death or the bereavement less final, but death in war was mischance. This was different, a close, intended and covert evil, meant for this man alone.

"Is it your coachman, sir?" Robb asked, but he could not help being aware that the question was unnecessary. The recognition was in both their faces.

"Yes, it is," Stourbridge said quietly. "This is James Treadwell. Where did you find him?"

The morgue attendant drew back the sheet to cover the face.

"In the street, sir," Robb replied, leading them away from the table and back towards the door. "On the path to one of a row of houses on Green Man Hill, about half a mile or so from here." Robb was sympathetic, but the detective in him was paramount. "Are you aware of his knowing anyone in this area?"

"What?" Stourbridge looked up. "Oh ... no, I don’t think so. He is a nephew of our cook. I can ask her. I have no idea where he went on his days off."

"Was it one of his days off when he disappeared, sir?"

"No..."

"Did he have your permission to use your coach, sir?"

Stourbridge hesitated a moment before replying. He looked across at Lucius, then away again.

"No, he did not. I am afraid the circumstances of his leaving the house are somewhat mysterious, and not understood by any of us, Sergeant. We know when he left, but nothing more than that."

"You knew he had taken your coach," Robb pointed out. "But you did not report it to the police. It is a very handsome coach, sir, and exceptionally well matched horses. Worth a considerable amount."