Well, he thought, it was on the cards. From the beginning it was on the cards and I’m glad I said as much to Valdarno.

He began a careful re-think. Suppose, he thought, as a starting point, we accept that the noise we heard while the Baroness was setting up that ludicrous group-photograph was, in fact, the sound of the sarcophagus lid thumping down on its edge, and I must say it sounded exactly like it. This would mean presumably that Violetta had just been killed and was about to be safely stowed. By Mailer? If by Mailer, then he himself survived to be killed, again presumably—no, almost certainly—before we all reassembled. The only members of the party who were alone were Sweet and young Dorne who found their way up independently, and Lady B. who was parked in the atrium.

The Van der Veghels were with me. Sophy Jason was with Barnaby Grant. We met nobody on our way up and they say as much for themselves.

Query. If Mailer killed Violetta while we were all having our photographs taken, why did he—not a robust man—go through the elaborate and physically exhausting job of putting the body in the sarcophagus and replacing the lid instead of doing what was subsequently done to him—dispatching it down the well?

I have no answer.

On the other hand, suppose one person killed both of them. Why? I am dumb, but suppose it was so? Why, for pity’s sake, make a sarcophagus job of Violetta and a well job of Mailer? Just for the hell of it?

But. But, suppose, on the third hand, Mailer killed Violetta and hadn’t time to do anything further about it before he himself was knocked off and pushed down the well? How will this fadge? Rather better, I fancy. And why does his killer take the trouble to box Violetta up? That’s an easier one. Much easier.

I suppose there’s a fourth hand. We approach Indian god status. Suppose Violetta killed Mailer and heaved him overboard and was then—no, that I refuse to entertain.