‘You’ve been hanging about with those jazz boys far too long,’ she said to herself.

  There was another oversized vase by the front door – the twin of the one in the chapel – containing half a dozen umbrellas of various sizes. She grabbed four and returned to the hall, where she tiptoed once more to the study door and listened to the music while she waited for four o’clock.

  With a whirr and a mechanical clonk, the clock began to chime the hour.

  As the fourth chime died away, she was about to knock but was startled into inaction when she heard another completely unexpected sound from inside the room.

  A gunshot.

  Chapter Four

  Ellie hammered on the study door. ‘Mr Bilverton!’

  The music inside played on.

  She tried the handle but, as she’d expected, the old oak door was locked. She beat it with the flat of her hand and shouted louder. ‘Mr Bilverton! Are you all right? Mr Bilverton!’

  She hammered again.

  ‘Mr Bilverton! John! John Bilverton!’

  She turned to see Elizabeth and Veronica, who had dropped the two heavy picnic baskets in the library and were hurrying towards her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Elizabeth, breathlessly.

  ‘Is it Papa?’ said Veronica. She was slightly less out of breath than her sister, but there wasn’t much in it.

  ‘I heard a gunshot,’ said Ellie. ‘Now there’s no reply.’

  Veronica put her ear to the door. ‘How can you be sure it was a shot over that music?’

  ‘Have you tried the handle?’ asked Elizabeth.

  Ellie stood aside and let them try the door for themselves.

  ‘Where’s the spare key?’ said Veronica.

  ‘Dunsworth must have one,’ said Elizabeth. ‘If he’s not about, I’d bet it’s on that board thing just inside his door.’

  Veronica dashed off towards the stairs in search of the butler and his spare key.

  ‘How high are the windows on the outside?’ said Ellie. ‘Can you see in?’

  Elizabeth frowned as she tried to remember. ‘Pretty high. We used to make a game of trying to peek in when we were children.’

  ‘But it can be done?’

  ‘If you’re nimble.’

  ‘I’m nimble enough. You wait here for Veronica, I’ll see what I can see through the window. I might even be able to get inside.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Elizabeth anxiously. ‘Do be careful.’

  Ellie trotted back to the entrance hall and grabbed an oiled rain cape before wrenching open one of the huge front doors and heading out into the storm.

  She hurried through the rapidly forming puddles towards the study window. The windowsill was above her head and she couldn’t immediately work out how the young Bilvertons had been able to see in. She decided the agile children must have been able to grip the sill and clamber up on the stone skirting. Or was it called a plinth course? Either way, she wasn’t convinced it was something she’d be able to do in her increasingly heavy summer dress, despite her claims to nimbleness.

  She looked around for something to stand on, but the outside of the front of the house was as neat and tidy as the inside. She put her head down and ran towards the corner – maybe there would be something there, out of sight.

  The gardeners had helpfully left a wheelbarrow and a couple of old tea chests by the garden wall. She loaded them up and trundled everything back to the study window, where she managed to make a wooden tower tall enough to be useful and dangerous enough to add an element of peril to future retellings of her exploits.

  Gripping the wet stone of the windowsill, she peered into the study. There was an electric lamp on the desk, faintly illuminating the room. The chair was facing towards the locked door but she could see there was someone in it. It looked like John Bilverton, and he appeared to be slumped to one side with his arm dangling over the armrest.

  Ellie banged on the window and called his name, but he didn’t respond. She wondered for a moment if the loud music might make it difficult to hear her, but realized, pressed up to the pane, that the record had long since ended.

  The window didn’t yield to her efforts to open it, so she gingerly clambered down from her precarious perch and went back to see how the Bilverton sisters were getting on in their attempts to gain entry by the more conventional route.

  She found Veronica holding a key nervously in both hands.

  ‘Dunsworth was nowhere to be seen,’ she said. ‘So I nabbed the key from his room. But it doesn’t work.’

  Elizabeth, meanwhile, was on her knees, trying to squint through the keyhole.

  ‘There’s something in there,’ she said. ‘That’s why it won’t open. It’s probably Papa’s key.’

  ‘So it’s locked from the inside?’ said Ellie.

  ‘It seems that way,’ said Veronica. ‘Did you manage to see anything?’

  ‘Yes. He’s in his chair, but he’s not moving. We’ve got to get in there. Right now.’

  Elizabeth stood. ‘Do you think we could break it down?’

  ‘If we threw all our weight against it we might,’ said Ellie as she shrugged off the dripping oilskin.

  ‘We’d not all fit in the doorway,’ said Veronica. ‘Let me try.’

  She took a few steps back and charged. She turned her shoulder towards the door as she approached and made violent, clattering contact. There was plenty of noise, but the door didn’t budge.

  ‘Buggering hell, that hurt,’ she said. ‘Worth another go, though.’

  She tried a few more times with a similar lack of success, though on the last effort they did hear a slight cracking sound.

  ‘Nice one, Ron,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Sounds like we’re nearly in. Let me have a go before you break your shoulder.’

  More cracking followed Elizabeth’s attempts but she, too, had to retire. Both women were now nursing aching shoulders.

  ‘Who would ever have thought doors would be so difficult to smash open?’ said Ellie. ‘Do you mind if I have a go?’

  ‘You go ahead,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We must be close to breaking in by now. It should only take a few more goes. Alternate your shoulders, though. I wish I had.’

  Ellie smashed into the door with all her might. Pain exploded in her arm and her nurse’s training helped her imagine all the damage she might be doing to herself. She definitely felt a little give from the door, though.

  She braced herself for another try, this time leading with the other shoulder. ‘I figure one more ought to do it.’

  She charged and, finally, the door burst open. The sudden lack of resistance made her lose her balance and she stumbled into the room, where she slipped on a small puddle of rainwater and landed in an awkward heap on the polished wooden floor. Elizabeth and Veronica were close behind.

  They rushed to their father, leaving Ellie to pick herself up and follow.

  She stood to find the sisters standing with their hands to their mouths.

  John Bilverton was very obviously dead. A gun lay on the floor beneath his outstretched left arm.

  The record on the new electric gramophone was still spinning. Ellie went over to it and switched it off.

  ‘We need to telephone the doctor,’ said Veronica.

  Elizabeth looked at her angrily. ‘And what will he do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The doctor – what will he do? Will he bring him back to life?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘We do need to notify the authorities,’ said Ellie, kindly. ‘I’ll telephone the doctor for you if you like.’

  Elizabeth didn’t move.

  Veronica shook her head. ‘Thank you, but I’ll do it.’

  She picked up the telephone receiver and Ellie put her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders and led her gently out of the room. There were a few chairs around the walls of the hall and Ellie directed Elizabeth to one of them.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ellie. ‘I don’t know what else to say, but I really am sorry. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  Elizabeth spoke softly. ‘Can you tell the others, please? They ought to know. Gordon, Howard, Uncle Malcolm. They’ll need to know.’

  Ellie noticed that she hadn’t mentioned John’s wife, Marianne, but now wasn’t the time to point that out. Instead she said, ‘I’ll go as soon as Veronica has finished on the phone.’

  She didn’t have long to wait before Veronica appeared in the study doorway.

  ‘The telephone’s not working.’

  ‘It must be the storm,’ said Ellie. ‘You two wait here while I go and tell the others, then we’ll work out what to do next.’

  She picked up the oilskin from its puddle and set off for the chapel.

  Ellie burst through the chapel door and slammed it behind her. The noise of her explosive entry made the band stop playing mid-bar. The Bilverton family, strewn across the cluster of mismatched dilapidated furniture, turned towards her as one.

  ‘I say, old girl,’ said Malcolm. ‘Steady on. Get yourself out of that wet coat and come and sit down – you’re drenched. Are the girls on their way with the scoff?’

  ‘Something terrible has happened,’ said Ellie. ‘Elizabeth and Veronica are very shaken and asked me to bring you the news. I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid John Bilverton is dead.’

  There was a moment’s shocked silence before every member of the family started asking Ellie urgent questions. Ellie prided herself on her calmness under fire, but after the horror of finding their host shot to death, she found herself overwhelmed by their clamorous interrogation. Holding back tears, she shrugged apologetically and turned away, leaving the Bilvertons to turn their questions on each other.

  Skins left his seat with the band and marched briskly to his wife.

  ‘Are you all right, Ells?’ he said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It looks like he shot himself,’ she whispered. ‘It was awful.’

  Skins pulled his wife into an embrace, and only then did she realize that she was trembling. Whether with cold or shock she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both.

  ‘Where are the daughters?’ he said.

  ‘I left them in the hall. Veronica tried to call the doctor but the telephone isn’t working.’

  Gordon came over to them – he seemed to have appointed himself family spokesman.

  ‘The phone’s not working?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Ellie. ‘Veronica tried to call the doctor but the line’s dead. It must be the storm.’

  ‘We’ll have to get help,’ said Gordon. ‘Howard? Take the car into Partlow’s Ford and fetch the doctor. Uncle Malcolm? Come with me – we need to look after the girls. Everyone else, stay here until . . . until we’ve got everything . . . everything cleared up.’

  ‘I ought to be with Elizabeth,’ said her fiancé, Peter.

  ‘Quite right, quite right. You come with us.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Marianne.

  Gordon frowned. ‘I don’t think that would be wise.’

  ‘Oh do shut up, Gordon,’ said Charlotte. ‘We’re both coming.’

  Marianne looked disdainfully at Charlotte. ‘I don’t think I need you, of all people, to speak up for me.’

  ‘Do you want to go to the house with the men?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then you can shut up as well. We’re coming, Gordon. Don’t be such an ass.’

  Gordon threw up his hands in despair, but relented.

  Ellie was abruptly aware that she and the band had no part to play in this family tragedy. She had been at the heart of it for a brief moment, but now she was cut adrift. Still, she felt compelled to try to help.

  ‘If there’s anything we can do . . .’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Maloney.’ For the first time, Gordon seemed unsure of himself. ‘Yes. Thank you. I’ll . . . er . . . we’ll . . .’

  ‘Come on, lad,’ said Malcolm.

  The family set off into the rain. Hetty Hollis paused for a moment, uncertain whether she was invited, but she made up her mind and followed them, leaving Ellie and Skins to return to the band.

  ‘What happened?’ said Dunn.

  Quickly and concisely, Ellie told them about hearing the music and gunshot, about the locked door and looking in through the window, about breaking in and, finally, finding John Bilverton dead in his chair.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Mickey. ‘Messy way to go. You all right?’

  ‘Messy?’ said Ellie.

  ‘We had a lieutenant in the war shoot himself. Nasty business.’

  ‘This wasn’t like that,’ said Ellie. ‘Just a single bullet hole in his left temple.’

  Mickey frowned. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I saw bullet holes in the war, too, Mickey. I know what I was looking at.’

  ‘Did you see the gun?’

  ‘It was on the floor. A small-calibre pistol. A Smith & Wesson .22.’

  ‘It’d still leave a mess if he held it up to his head. A little .22 round could go straight through.’

  ‘What was the wound like?’ asked Dunn.

  ‘A small round hole,’ said Ellie.

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Wound-coloured.’

  ‘Any little black dots round it?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘No. No, there weren’t. The edge of the hole was darker, I guess. A lot darker now I think about it, like it was bruised, but there were no little dots.’

  ‘He didn’t shoot himself,’ said Mickey and Dunn together.

  Skins nodded. ‘I saw a few wounds in my day, too. If you fire a gun up close, powder and bits of other crud embed themselves in the skin. If it’s more than . . . what do you reckon? Two feet?’

  ‘I’d say two feet,’ said Mickey. ‘Maybe a little more.’

  ‘More than two feet away,’ continued Skins, ‘the powder and other rubbish doesn’t hit the skin.’

  ‘What about if the muzzle is touching the skin?’ said Ellie.

  ‘Makes a horrible mess,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s what happened to the lieutenant. Rips its way in, then rips its way out again.’

  ‘Whereas,’ said Dunn, ‘if you shoot someone with a little pop gun like that from a few feet away and the bullet makes a neat little hole with a black ring around it, it’s probably not going to come out the other side.’

  ‘But the room was locked from the inside,’ said Ellie. ‘He must have done it himself.’

  ‘I suppose you could hold a gun at arm’s length,’ said Mickey, miming the action. ‘But there’s a fair chance you’d miss unless you were looking straight at it.’

  ‘No, he was shot in the temple.’

  ‘You’d have to pull the trigger with your thumb, too,’ said Skins. ‘I reckon it would spin out of your hand when you fired if you didn’t have a proper grip on it.’

  ‘And the pistol was lying on the floor underneath his outstretched arm,’ said Ellie.

  ‘Which arm was it?’ said Skins.

  ‘Left. The wound was to his left temple and the gun was on the floor to the left of his chair.’

  ‘You saw him earlier. Was he left-handed?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘But if he shot himself in the left temple with his left hand, I’m willing to bet he was.’

  ‘Still doesn’t explain the wound,’ said Skins. ‘What do you reckon we should do about it?’

  Ellie touched his arm. ‘When Howard gets back with the doctor, you three can explain your thoughts about the wound. Then we’ll all retire discreetly back here to leave the family to grieve in peace while we wait for the motor coach to take us home to London. Where is it, do you think? It was supposed to be here by lunch.’

  ‘Delayed, I suppose. By the weather,’ said Skins, looking unusually thoughtful. ‘What a rotten business. I can’t even imagine what they’re feeling.’

  ‘Which is why we need to gently say our piece and then get out of the way,’ Ellie reiterated. ‘They need each other, not a jazz band.’

  ‘They could probably do with a cup of tea as well,’ said Dunn. ‘Any of you lot want one? I’ll make a pot.’

  Everyone did.

  It took Dunn quite a while to make and pour ten cups of tea in the eclectic assortment of crockery. It seemed that all the odds and ends from the house ended up in Malcolm’s studio, from lone bone china cups to army surplus tin mugs, and Dunn was amused, as always, by the frugality of the moneyed classes. His landlady could ill afford to throw out old cups and saucers, but she would be mortified to serve her guests tea in mismatched crockery. These people, though, could buy an entirely new set every time someone so much as chipped a cup handle, but they clung to the oddments and unembarrassedly displayed them to strangers.

  A few minutes later, Howard clattered into the chapel, a burst of rain blowing in with him, and the Dizzies fell silent as he slammed the door.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘Couldn’t get off the estate,’ said Howard. ‘Main road’s a good three feet deep. Tried going down the track and out the back on to the lane, but that’s flooded, too. The river must have burst its banks. We’re the only thing above water for miles around.’

  This provoked a groan from the band.

  ‘We’re stranded,’ said Benny, softly. ‘That’ll be why the motor coach hasn’t come to pick us up.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be takin’ the missus to see her mother tomorrow,’ said Elk. ‘Sunday lunch with all the trimmings. She does a lovely roast, my mother-in-law.’

  Howard shrugged apologetically. ‘Obviously you can stay for as long as needs be.’

  The band’s complaints melted to sympathetic murmurs.

  ‘None of us has much of an appetite, as you can imagine, but Mrs Radway has set out some afternoon tea if you’re hungry. You should feel free to come up to the house.’