Kincaid leaned forward and took a breath. “Won’t you sit down, please, both of you, and tell me what’s happened.”

They sat obediently, but Caroline perched straight-backed on the sofa’s edge, away from the protective curve of her husband’s arm. “It’s Connor. Our son-in-law. They’ll have told you.” She looked at him, her brown eyes made darker by dilating pupils. “We can’t believe it’s true. Why would someone kill Connor? It doesn’t make sense, Mr. Kincaid.”

“We’ll certainly need more evidence before we can treat this as an official murder inquiry, Dame Caroline.”

“But I thought…” she began, then looked rather helplessly at Kincaid.

“Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Was your son-in-law well liked?” Kincaid looked at them both, including Sir Gerald in the question, but it was Caroline who answered.

“Of course. Everyone liked Con. You couldn’t not.”

“Had he been behaving any differently lately? Upset or unhappy for any reason?”

Shaking her head, she said, “Con was always… just Con. You would have to have known…” Her eyes filled. She balled one hand into a fist and held it to her mouth. “I feel such a bloody fool. I’m not usually given to hysterics, Mr. Kincaid. Or incoherence. It’s the shock, I suppose.”

Kincaid thought her definition of hysteria rather exaggerated, but said soothingly, “It’s perfectly all right, Dame Caroline. When did you see Connor last?”

She sniffed and ran a knuckle under one eye. It came away smudged with black. “Lunch. He came for lunch yesterday. He often did.”