‘No, no, it’s rather refreshing in a way. No, I’m not really fine. But it’s nothing to worry about. Just a . . . a personal matter.’

  ‘John’s death has hit everyone hard.’

  To Ellie’s surprise, Charlotte laughed. ‘John? That miserable old ratbag? I’ll not be missing him.’

  ‘You’re going to have to excuse some more American directness, then, but I thought you and he were having an affair.’

  Charlotte laughed again. ‘You’re not alone there.’

  ‘So you weren’t?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. Can you imagine? One shudders even to think of it.’

  ‘Then why does everyone think you were?’

  ‘Because we let them.’

  ‘We?’

  Charlotte looked at her for a moment. ‘I’ve so wanted to explain it to someone – do you mind it being you? It would help to say it out loud to someone who isn’t part of the family, but I must insist on your absolute discretion.’

  Ellie was struck by the similarities with the conversation she’d had with Marianne the day before. Both outsiders, both keen to confide in another outsider. She was also suddenly afraid that she was about to be made an accessory after the fact. But her curiosity got the better of her. ‘Sure. Mum’s the word, as you say over here.’

  ‘I was having an affair, but not with John.’

  ‘Then who?’

  Charlotte looked at her quizzically. ‘With Marianne,’ she said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

  Ellie was so surprised it was all she could do not to laugh. Gathering herself together, she said, ‘But the whole family thinks it was John.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even Marianne told me you were sleeping with him.’

  ‘She loved John, so she went along with the lie for his sake.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘He caught us a couple of months ago. There was a fearful row. There was a lot of bluster, of course. Anger. Confusion. Hurt. But then resignation. He said he wouldn’t stop us, but he begged us never to let on. If any hint of an affair got out, we were to say it was with him, not Marianne. He’d been the villain before and could take all the disapprobation that went with it, but he couldn’t bear the thought of people knowing his wife had been with another woman. Obviously word did get out – last week, in fact – and we dutifully went along with the story.’

  ‘And now he’s gone?’

  ‘Now he’s gone we don’t need to keep it a secret, but Marianne insists. She says that with Gordon having forgiven me—’

  ‘He’s forgiven you?’

  ‘He couldn’t bear any sort of scandal, either, so divorcing me was always out of the question. With him forgiving me and the man he believes I was having an affair with dead, Marianne thinks we can pretend it’s all over. We’ve avoided any possible trouble and we can all carry on as normal.’

  ‘But you don’t?’

  ‘I . . . Well, I love her. Marrying Gordon was the most frightful mistake. I can never be happy as the dutiful wife of a biscuit-maker. I want to tell them all the truth and go to London with Marianne.’

  ‘And she doesn’t want that?’

  ‘I thought she did. But I’m not certain any longer. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure—’ Ellie stopped as she heard footsteps outside.

  Gordon appeared in the doorway. ‘Ah, there you are, darling. I’ve been looking for you. How are you fixed for a game of croquet? The lawn’s dried out nicely. Betty and Peter are playing.’

  Charlotte pasted on a big smile. ‘That would be delightful. Will you join us, Ellie?’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Ellie, ‘but I promised I’d join Ivor and Barty in the chapel.’

  ‘You’re all welcome,’ said Gordon. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll let them know.’

  With a smile to Charlotte, she left the library and headed for the stairs.

  Ellie found Skins and Dunn lounging on chairs at the end of the chapel, chatting with Mickey and Benny.

  ‘ . . . so the barman says—’

  ‘Hello, boys,’ said Ellie. ‘Can I have a quiet word?’

  ‘Really?’ said Skins, exasperatedly. ‘Can I not be allowed to get this punchline out just once?’

  Dunn laughed.

  ‘And you can shut up as well,’ said Skins.

  ‘I’ve got to be honest with you, mate, this is funnier than that old joke ever could be. What’s the news, Ellie? Anything good?’

  ‘Walk this way and I’ll tell you,’ she said, and stood up.

  As she walked off, Skins heaved himself to his feet. ‘If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need—’

  ‘Shut up, Ivor,’ she called over her shoulder.

  She led Skins and Dunn to a quiet corner.

  ‘Who was in the library, and what have you found out?’ asked Dunn as Ellie turned to face them.

  ‘It was Charlotte, and I found out what she and Marianne were talking about when you overheard them in the Grand Hall.’

  ‘They murdered John,’ said Skins.

  ‘They’re sisters,’ said Dunn.

  ‘They’re part of a secret society controlling the world by exerting their sinister influence on England’s rich and powerful families,’ said Skins.

  Ellie laughed. ‘Where do you get this rubbish?’

  ‘It was a pamphlet some bloke in a raincoat was handing out up the West End one night.’

  ‘No, it’s altogether much more straightforward than that. Charlotte was having an affair, but not with John Bilverton—’

  ‘Uncle Malcolm,’ interrupted Skins.

  ‘Peter Putnam,’ said Dunn.

  ‘Dunsworth the butler,’ said Skins.

  ‘No, you goofs. Marianne Bilverton.’

  ‘Now hang on a minute,’ said Skins. ‘Everyone – including Marianne – told us she was having it away with the old feller.’

  ‘Everyone – excluding Marianne – was mistaken. And Marianne was lying. It was something to do with protecting John’s pride. I think both the women had one eye on their inheritance – or Gordon’s inheritance in Charlotte’s case – so they went along with a fiction John concocted for them. It seems John would rather have been known as a degenerate roué than a cuckold even if it destroyed his family, so he made them promise to tell the lie that he was the lucky recipient of Charlotte’s favours, and not Marianne.’

  ‘She’s a good-looking girl,’ said Dunn. ‘Once we’d heard what John was like, I had no trouble believing he’d have wanted her.’

  ‘Well, whether he did or not,’ said Ellie, ‘she wanted his wife, not him.’

  ‘So where does that leave them as suspects?’ asked Skins. ‘Did they want John out of the way? Or did his existence make no difference to them?’

  ‘As far as I can make out, Marianne really did love him so she wouldn’t have wanted him dead. But Charlotte claims to love Marianne, so she might have wanted him out of the way.’

  ‘Is she bright enough to pull it off?’ asked Dunn.

  ‘How would we know? Whoever did it is a good deal brighter than us – we’ve still no idea how they did it. But I couldn’t tell from my brief conversation. She didn’t come across as an idiot. But then again, none of them does.’

  ‘We’ll figure it out,’ said Skins.

  ‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Ellie. ‘There are two dead already and anyone could be next.’

  ‘Even us,’ said Dunn.

  Skins looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘There’s got to be a simple answer to John’s murder. Another way out of the room, maybe. We didn’t look for a trapdoor, after all. Or a secret mechanism on the window so you can open it without opening it.’

  ‘What?’ said Dunn.

  ‘Like a latch or something so you can open it sideways instead of lifting the sash.’

  ‘How would that help?’

  ‘I don’t know – I’m just trying to come up with ideas. What about the ceiling? Did either of you look up there? A hatch with a ladder?’

  ‘Just your bog-standard moulded ceiling rose with an electric light fitting.’

  ‘One of them big ones? That could be the hatch. There could be another secret passageway between the floors.’

  ‘It’s all getting a little wild now, honey,’ said Ellie. ‘Why don’t we let it percolate for a bit and join the others?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dunn. ‘If we don’t stop him soon he’ll have Father Christmas coming down the chimney and shooting John before being pulled back up by his elves.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, mate,’ said Skins. ‘It’s June. Everyone knows Father Christmas is still at the North Pole in June.’

  ‘Can’t be him, then. Easter Bunny?’

  ‘Too late – she’s back in her burrow painting eggs for next year.’

  ‘A witch on her broomstick.’

  ‘Halloween’s not for ages.’

  ‘Leprechaun?’

  ‘Oh, do stop it,’ said Ellie. ‘And everyone knows leprechauns only come out on St Patrick’s Day, anyway.’

  ‘He could be guarding his gold at the end of a rainbow,’ said Dunn. ‘We haven’t looked outside for ages. There could have been a rainbow.’

  ‘I’m going back to the comfy chairs.’

  As she left she could still hear them.

  ‘Cupid?’

  ‘He takes a few months off in the South of France after Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘How about . . .’

  Lunch was served once more on the terrace, where the sky was blue and the sun deliciously warm. Skins and Ellie were sitting with Gordon and Peter, who were talking excitedly about the future.

  Gordon was gesturing with a slice of ham on the end of his fork. ‘Look, the thing is, I’ll most likely be inheriting the business, and I’ll need a decent solicitor to look after the firm’s affairs. Do you think you can handle that?’

  Peter looked as though he was going to burst with pleasure. ‘I say. Well. Yes. Heavens, yes. I’m already dealing with most of the Bilver-Tone work so I might have to engage another junior. Maybe two. But the Bilverton’s Biscuits account would make it worth it. Oh.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, what about John’s lawyers? Won’t they be dealing with everything?’

  ‘I’ve been studying that business since I was a lad. One of the things I learned was that my father surrounded himself with people he knew and trusted. The current firm – Dog Cart, Wimple and Fetlock or whatever they’re called – are his pals, not mine. I want to build up my own circle of advisers.’

  ‘Well, gosh. Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll be part of the family soon – it would be good to have you helping with the family business. We’ll sit down after the reading of the will and thrash out the details.’

  ‘How very splendid. Thank you, old chap.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. But we seem to be talking shop and ignoring our guests. Are you fellows enduring your incarceration without too many problems?’

  ‘We’re finding ways to amuse ourselves,’ said Ellie.

  ‘That’s the spirit. Howie says the roads should be clear tomorrow, so if we can get word out we might even have you home soon.’

  ‘That would be wonderful. I’m missing my children very much.’

  ‘Good heavens. I hadn’t even thought about that.’

  ‘They probably haven’t actually noticed we’re not there, but we’ve not been able to telephone, obviously, so Nanny will be worrying.’

  Gordon looked puzzled for a moment. It had clearly not occurred to him that a musician and his wife might employ a nanny. ‘Howie suspected the telephone might be back on soon, too, so you’ll have to call your nanny and let her know where you are.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Skins had lost interest and was looking around the table. As always, he was struck by the bright mood, and intrigued by the tangle of unlikely alliances and the muttered conversations. Only Marianne had ever seemed properly upset, and even she was joking with Veronica.

  He turned his attention to his surroundings. The terrace was obviously well looked after. The flagstones were free of weeds and the ornamental stone flowerpots appeared to be conscientiously tended. There was a wood and canvas contraption leaning against the wall, and it took him a few moments to work out that it was probably some sort of sun shade that could be fitted to the table. It was as well maintained as everything else, with the canvas canopy clean and bright and the woodwork neatly varnished. One of the screws had clearly been removed for some reason. The heads of all the screws had been varnished over, but the brass of this one was shining through where the varnish had been scratched off by the gardener’s screwdriver.

  He stood up and bent to whisper in Ellie’s ear. ‘I’ve just thought of something. Back in a sec.’

  He walked quickly through the salon, the library and the Grand Hall on his way to John Bilverton’s study.

  Once inside the study, Skins checked that no one had followed him, then squatted down to inspect the lock. There was nothing exotic about it. It was a factory-made lock of the sort he’d seen on hundreds of doors. He’d had to replace a similar surface-mounted lock once before and had learned that it was referred to in the locksmith trade as a ‘rim latch’. It was a rectangular box of pressed metal, painted black, with a brass doorknob and a keyhole, still containing its key.

  It showed signs of wear. The edges of the keyhole were bent where the key had scraped it and there were a couple of dents in the casing, but like everything else in the house, it was well maintained. It had been given a fresh coat of black paint at some point which, just like the varnish on the sun shade, had covered the screws that affixed it to the door. And, as with the sunshade, the paint on the screw heads had been scratched, exposing bright, shiny brass. Someone had removed and replaced the lock recently enough that the brass hadn’t had time to tarnish.

  Skins turned the key.

  Nothing happened. It just rotated inside the lock, and the bolt stayed resolutely in place.

  He stood and looked around the room. He wanted to get a proper look at the lock and that would mean taking it off the door and opening it up. He needed a screwdriver, but where would he find one? Hadn’t he seen one in the desk?

  He rummaged through the drawers once more and, sure enough, there was the gun-cleaning kit and the two screwdrivers.

  ‘Got to admire a practical bloke,’ he said, and picked the larger of the two.

  As he suspected, the screws moved easily, and within moments he had the lock in his hand. He removed the key and turned the case over. There were more screws, also scratched, on the other side. He cleared a space on John’s desk and laid the lock down so he could try to open it.

  Again, the four screws moved easily and within moments he was prising off the cover. He was going slowly now, though. He had dismantled too many contraptions over the years, and had experienced too many disastrous explosions of springs, widgets and whatnots not to be cautious when opening something new.

  He lifted the cover clear and narrowly missed being struck in the face by an escaping spring.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said as he scoured the rug to find it.

  He retrieved the mutinous spring and placed it on the desk with the screws.

  Skins was no locksmith, but he could see there was something not quite right with the lock. He picked up the key and placed it into the mechanism. Holding it in place with one hand, he turned it. Whatever it was supposed to turn or move was absent. He poked at the bolt, which moved freely.

  He thought for a moment, then picked up the stiff spring. It looked newer than the rest of the mechanism – it was obviously not an original part.

  There were scratches on the plate that held the bolt, and corresponding scratches on the case at about the same level. He managed to fit the spring into the gap and saw that it was definitely the cause of the scratches.

  With one hand on the spring to stop it bursting out again, he tried the bolt, and this time it was held firmly in place by the spring.

  He sat back. Someone had altered the lock. They’d removed part of the mechanism and replaced it with a simple spring. But why? What good would that do? The bolt was held in place by the spring, but that would stop the door closing, surely. How did that help? He had no idea, but he was certain the killer must have had something to do with it. Nothing else made sense.

  He was about to leave everything and go to tell Ellie and Dunn what he’d learned, but it occurred to him that if the killer saw the dismantled lock on the desk, they’d know someone was on to them. He screwed the cover in place and reattached the whole thing to the door.

  He returned the screwdriver to the desk drawer and set off to return to the terrace.

  The crowd at the lunch table had thinned, and Ellie and Dunn were on their own. Skins stood beside them.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Dunn.

  ‘Just me being a genius.’

  ‘And we missed it. Damn.’

  ‘You can still bask in the glory of it, though,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Just walk this way and I’ll tell all.’ He turned, ready to lead them back towards the chapel.

  ‘If I could walk that way—’ began Ellie.

  Skins grinned. ‘That’s quite enough of that, Eleanora Maloney.’

  They strolled along the path until Skins was certain they couldn’t be overheard. He briefly described his recent discoveries.

  ‘So someone tampered with the lock,’ said Ellie when he was finished.

  ‘But in a way that meant that you couldn’t shut the door after it was done,’ said Dunn.

  Skins nodded. ‘Exactly. So what’s going on there? Someone rigged the whole thing so the door would stay locked and the key wouldn’t do anything. But how did they get it closed in the first place? Like you say, once the thing’s set up, the bolt’s out and the door won’t shut.’

  ‘Unless you fit the lock when the door’s closed. Maybe John did it. Maybe he really did shoot himself.’

  ‘But why go to all that trouble?’ asked Ellie. ‘He could get everything he wanted just by locking the door. All this must be for something else.’