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killed her,’ her ladyship added flatly, seeing the cook’s rather puzzled look and knowing full well that gentleness was not required. Their new cook was obviously the kind of woman who could cope with almost anything.
    Except, perhaps, a tart that refused to brown.
    ‘Oh,’ Jenny said flatly.
    Ava Simmons, dead? All that waste! She’d been so young. Jenny bit back the sensation of anger and dismay that swamped her, and forced herself to look levelly at her employer.
    ‘Exactly,’ her ladyship continued crisply. ‘And since you seem to be rather good at this sort of thing, I want you to accompany the inspector here wherever he goes, and lend a hand.’
    Jenny gaped, then glanced across at the equally gobsmacked inspector. The inspector glared back. It would have been impossible to say which one of them looked the more dismayed.
    ‘Oh,’ Jenny said again. Even more flatly.
    ‘It will help enormously to have a friendly face sitting in on all the questioning, don’t you think, Inspector?’ Lady Avonsleigh issued the challenge, obviously not expecting a fight.
    ‘I expect so, my lady,’ Bishop answered glumly, his lack of enthusiasm plain to one and all.
    ‘That’s settled then,’ she said happily, steamrollering over him in classic style.
    ‘Is there anything else we can do for you, Inspector?’ Lord Avonsleigh asked, obviously not without sympathy for the policeman, and Bishop, relieved, put down his untouched cup of tea and rose.
    ‘Not at the moment, sir, thank you. Perhaps I can speak to Meecham now?’
    ‘Of course, of course. I dare say he’s in the kitchen. Miss Starling will show you the way.’
    Jenny obliged, very much aware of two pairs of hostile eyes boring into her broad back with every step she took. Notthat she was worried about that, unduly, she had other things on her mind.
    Ava Simmons dead. Killed. Murdered.
    But who? And why?
     
    In the kitchen, only Meecham and Elsie sat around the table. The butler half rose, then nervously sat back down again as the policemen came into the room. He looked pale, and the hands holding his tea cup shook.
    Not a strong character, this, Bishop thought. A rather timid soul. But good at his job, he’d bet.
    ‘Mr Meecham,’ Bishop greeted him kindly. ‘I’d like you to tell me exactly what you saw this afternoon.’ He got the ball rolling immediately, nodding to Myers who was already poised, notebook handy. Both policemen sat opposite the butler, presenting a formidable show of force.
    Meecham swallowed. Hard. ‘Well, sir. I took the food out to the party on the terrace about, oh five past three, no later. And I returned just before half past to retrieve it.’
    ‘Bit quick, weren’t you?’ Bishop asked, and Meecham flushed.
    ‘They are hearty eaters, and the colonel has, well, a thing about food.’
    ‘A thing?’ Bishop repeated, surprised.
    ‘Yes, sir.’ But Meecham would not be drawn. He was, after all, still a butler. And discretion was his middle name.
    ‘I see. Then what?’
    ‘On our way out I noticed the dagger, sir. It was covered in blood: it was dripping down the wall.’ The butler shuddered and took a hasty sip of hot tea, and Jenny found herself wishing she had a mug of her own.
    Vividly now, she recalled the beautiful dagger to mind. And the fact that someone had used such a beautiful objectto commit such an ugly act made her feel outraged. To be stabbed to death was awful.
    Jenny, aware that she was in slight shock, briskly set about making herself a cup of strong, very sweet tea, at the same time keeping her ears firmly open as the police questioning continued. She knew from bitter experience that there would be many more hours of it to come yet, and she needed to keep her wits about her.
    ‘You didn’t notice it dripping in blood when you went to retrieve the tray, though?’ Bishop asked sharply, pointing out the inconsistency with a sharply suspicious tone.
    Meecham paled further. ‘Er…no, sir, I didn’t. I