Dorothy gave a convulsive sob. She reached out and took her friend’s hand.

‘He’s dead, Rose.’

They’re all dead,’ Rosemary returned briskly. ‘We shouldn’t have any victims otherwise.’

Dorothy shook her head violently.

‘This is different, Rose. This is serious. They really killed him!’

Rosemary raised her eyebrows.

‘”They”, Dot? Do you think there’s more than one person involved, then?’

‘You know who I mean! They were carrying him in when I crossed the hallway. There was blood everywhere, his face was scarcely recognisable. It looked as though he’d been ripped apart by some…’

Rosemary withdrew her hand with a genteel shudder.

‘There’s no need to descend to vulgar melodrama, Dorothy, even if…’

She broke off abruptly.

‘Oh Dot!’ she laughed. ‘You are clever!’

Dorothy stared at her blankly.

‘You completely took me in!’ Rosemary went on admiringly. ‘It’s the classic technique, disguising the essential clue in a passage of gory sensationalism, and I almost fell for it. “His face was scarcely recognisable.” Of course! That’s the solution!’

Picking up the shapeless mass of frayed yarn which Dorothy had unravelled, she started to wind it rapidly into a neat ball.

‘We’ve established that Randolph Fitzpayne assumed the identity of George Channing in order to do away with Hilary Bryant. Now that has been achieved, he needs to cover his tracks so that he and Lady Belinda Scott can elope to their villa in Amalfi…’

‘Antibes.’

Rosemary nodded and smiled.

‘Beg pardon. Dot, you’re quite right. In Antibes. And how better to ensure that his crime is not brought home to him than by killing off George Channing? The police can’t arrest a dead man-especially one who never existed in the first place!’

She handed the completed ball of wool to her friend.