“So he was murdered?” Sinclair said. He sounded skeptical.

“That’s what it looks like. Unless he did do it himself and someone found him and for some reason put the gun in his hands. Forensics are checking for prints but Morton is pretty sure there weren’t any except Jewell’s. Anyway, it’s not easy to shoot yourself with a shotgun.”

“What does Hackett think?”

“Oh, God knows-you know Hackett.”

Sinclair came to the desk and stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. His face was a blank mask. “And Dannie?” he asked. “Was she there?”

“She was out riding, came back and heard the news.”

“Did you see her? How was she?”

“Composed to begin with, then not so much. She and Jewell’s missus put on a show together for Hackett and me.”

“A show?”

“Gin and tonics and smart repartee. I don’t know why they thought they had to seem not to care-one of them had lost a husband, the other one a brother, no matter how much of a bastard he may have been.”

Sinclair had gone to the steel cabinet by the wall and found a pair of rubber gloves and was pulling them on. “You want me to get started?”

“I’m coming.”

They went together into the dissecting room. There was the usual low hum from the big fluorescent lamps in the ceiling. Sinclair drew back the nylon sheet and gave a low whistle.

“The blast left most of his head on the window in front of him,” Quirke said.

Sinclair nodded. “Close range-that’s a powder burn on his throat, isn’t it?” He drew the sheet all the way off the corpse. They saw that Richard Jewell had been circumcised. They made no comment. “Did Dannie see him like this?” Sinclair asked.

“I don’t think so. His wife would have kept her away. A cool customer, Madame Jewell.”

“I never met her.”