‘Corinne might have written the letters herself,’ Antonia went on. ‘She might be obsessed with death, as her interest in funeral wreaths suggests… Some kind of death-wish. Or the death threats might be a publicity stunt – aimed to revive public interest in her – an ageing, self-dramatizing diva’s attention-seeking ploy.’

‘What a splendid idea,’ Lady Grylls said. ‘I adore ploys. Such fun, having you here. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come. I really don’t. I would have been bored to sobs.’

‘The death threats might turn out to be the work of a rival diva. Somebody who’s still jealous of Corinne,’ Payne suggested. ‘One of those legendary cat-fights that go back a long way?’

‘The dilemma… of the deadly diva?’ Lady Grylls shot a sly look at Antonia.

Antonia bit her lip. We are being damned insensitive, she thought, treating this as though it were some sort of parlour game. We are providing entertainment for a bored baroness – like the court jesters of old… Corinne Coreille, despite all her oddities and great riches, was a human being, at the moment no doubt a terribly frightened one. Were they so incapable of understanding, empathy and simple compassion?

‘The death threats might turn out to be what is known as a “cry for help”,’ Major Payne was saying. ‘Corinne may be mired in misery – on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She may feel her career is on the skids – she may be convinced that she has reached the end of the line.’

Lady Grylls said she was sure Antonia could make any of these theories work if she were writing Corinne’s story up in a book – the plot would be one of those complicated clockwork affairs with a hundred moving parts and interdependence absolute – she could, couldn’t she? Lady Grylls had always maintained that detective story writers were terribly clever.