“Aye, the Jewells were a great couple for the functions.”

They were each aware of a constraint between them, small but almost palpable. Death had that effect; it was embarrassing, like a bad odor. They spoke of Harrison and his heart attack. Quirke said he had not minded being called out on a Sunday, and Hackett thought, yes, single men don’t care about their Sundays. Though he had heard Quirke was going out with some woman now-an actress, was it? He considered it best not to inquire; Quirke’s private life was a tangled business at the best of times. If there was such a thing as a private life, the detective thought, in this country.

They set off ambling across the dry grass towards the house. “Did you have a look at his nibs?” the Inspector asked.

Quirke nodded. “Some mess.”

“Indeed.” There was a pause. “And what did you think?”

“Well,” Quirke said drily, “there’s hardly any doubt as to the cause of death.”

They left the paddock and Hackett shut and barred the gate behind them. An unseen horse in one of the stables spluttered through its lips noisily and gave a kick to something wooden. Other animals stirred too, then settled down again. A sense of unease lay upon the Sunday quiet-or was it only imagined? But violent death is a definite presence; Hackett had felt the swish of its dark mantle before.

“There’ll be some hullabaloo,” he said. He chuckled. “What will the Clarion have to say, I wonder?”

“It will print the truth fearlessly, as always.”

This time they both laughed.

“And what will that be?” Hackett asked.

“Hmm?”

“The truth.”

“Ah, that’s a question.”

They came to the house and stopped to admire its noble frontage. “Is there an heir, I wonder?” Hackett mused.

“The widow will inherit, surely?”

“She hardly looks to me like one who’d be prepared to run a newspaper business.”