“Of course.” Her voice was low and almost hoarse, huskier than Kincaid had expected for a woman of her size, and controlled. But when she set her cup on the low table, her hand trembled.

Kincaid and Gemma took the two armchairs opposite the sofa, and Deveney shifted the constable’s chair so that he sat beside Gemma.

“I knew your husband, Mrs. Gilbert,” Kincaid said. “I’m very sorry”

“Did you?” she asked in a tone of bright interest. Then she added, “Would you like some tea?” The low table before her held a tray with a pot and some extra cups and saucers. When Kincaid and Gemma both murmured affirmatives, she leaned forwards and poured a little into her own cup, then sat back, looking around vaguely. “What time is it?” she asked, but the question didn’t seem to be directed to anyone in particular.

“Let me do that for you,” said Gemma after a moment, when it became clear that tea was not forthcoming. She filled two cups with milk and strong tea, then glanced at Deveney, who shook his head.

Accepting a cup from Gemma, Kincaid said, “It’s very late, Mrs. Gilbert, but I want to go over one or two things while they’re clear in your mind.”

The carriage clock on the mantel began to chime midnight. Claire stared at it, frowning. “It is late, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized.”

The daughter had been sitting so quietly that Kincaid had almost forgotten her presence, but now she shifted restlessly, drawing his attention. Her clothes made a rustling sound against the sofa’s cream-and-red-striped chintz as she repositioned herself, turning towards Claire and touching her knee. “Mummy, please, you must get some rest,” she said, and from the entreaty in her voice Kincaid guessed that it was not the first time she’d made the request. “You can’t keep on like this.” She looked at Kincaid and added, “Tell her, Superintendent, please. She’ll listen to you.”

Kincaid examined her more closely.