At a table near the French windows giving on to the lawn, Charles Symes and Grace Lebon were bent over a jigsaw puzzle, their heads almost touching. His back pointedly turned to the beauties of the landscape, Samuel Rosenstein stood muttering into the telephone in a guttural undertone. Lady Belinda Scott sat rigidly upright on the piano stool, her fingers lightly touching the keys, while in the corner Canon Purvey nodded over a book. Only George Channing, the corned beef millionaire, appeared to be missing.

Rosemary made her way towards the bay window where her friend Dorothy Davenport sat absorbed in her knitting.

‘I’ve got it, Dot!’ she announced excitedly.

‘I do hope it isn’t catching, dear.’

‘No, I mean I’ve worked out who did it.’

The clacking of Dorothy’s needles ceased as she turned her pale, elfin face to Rosemary.

‘Did what?’

‘Why, the murder, of course!’

Dorothy looked away and completed a few more stitches.

‘Which murder?’ she murmured. ‘There have been so many.’

‘Well, only two recently,’ Rosemary replied. ‘And of those it’s Hilary Bryant’s death which has really mystified us, because it seemed that none of the guests could have killed her-although of course one of them must have.’

Dorothy Davenport gave her friend a weak smile.

‘I’m sorry I keep forgetting. I think it must be my medicine.’

‘I’m just as bad,’ Rosemary said quickly. ‘Half the time I can’t even remember which day it is.’

Dorothy laid down her knitting.

‘Oh, I know that. It’s the day Dr Morel is to call with the results of my tests.’

She winced suddenly. Rosemary bent forward and touched her hand.

‘Is it painful?’

Dorothy shook her head.

It’s not that.’

‘What, then?’

Dorothy looked at her friend.