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his father was one of Farlinford’s founding partners, as was Drew’s father. We’ve all known each other for ages.”
    “I mean, sir . . .” Applegate’s face was now beet red. “I mean, there’s been talk, just rumor mind you, about Mrs. Parker and Mr. Lincoln in Monte Carlo. I wouldn’t dare repeat such a thing if it didn’t have bearing on a murder investigation.”
    “The rumors are just that,” Mason said, his usually mild face taut. “Is there something you’d like to know about that actually pertains to the case?”
    “Perhaps it would be best to send for Mrs. Parker after all, sir. Just to clarify things.”
    “Don’t you think she’s upset enough as it is?”
    “I can appreciate that, sir, but under the circumstances . . .”
    “Shall I send Anna up for her?” Drew asked.
    Mason did not reply for a moment, but then he nodded. “Yes, perhaps that is best.”
    Drew excused himself, found Anna in the kitchen gossiping about murdering Bolsheviks lurking everywhere, and sent her upstairs.
    When he returned to the ballroom, Dr. Wallace was there talking to the others.
    “I’m afraid I can’t tell you more than was already obvious. Instantaneous death from a shotgun blast to the head. No more than two hours ago. Your fireworks display, Mr. Parker, must have been what masked the sound of it. No other marks or injuries on the body. No weapon at the scene. Marks & Blackistone’s have come to remove the body, Constable, if permitted.”
    “Yes, all right. I’ve dusted for prints and found nothing but what was on the lantern, probably Mr. Drew’s. No weapon found, as you say.”
    “You did fingerprint the corpse as well, didn’t you?” Nick asked. “I mean, just to be sure.”
    “Yes, I do know my job, thank you. Nothing more there to see. I’ll tell Mr. Blackistone he may carry on.”
    “But, Jimmy,” Drew began, “what about—?”
    “Doctor! Oh, Doctor!” Anna raced down the front stairway, something Mrs. Devon never allowed. “You must come at once!”
    “What is it?” Dr. Wallace asked, hurrying to her.
    “It’s Mrs. Parker, Doctor. She’s dead.”

Five
    T he bottle on the night table was marked Veronol .
    It was empty.
    “Did Mrs. Parker typically use this?” P. C. Applegate asked.
    Drew narrowed his eyes, studying the expression on the face of the girl standing at his mother’s bedside. Beryl had been Constance’s personal maid for nearly five years and knew her mistress’s habits well.
    “She did. If she couldn’t sleep or her head was bothering her, she’d take it and go right out.” Beryl crumpled her apron in both hands and used it to blot the tears from her round face. “She’d go right out. I didn’t think anything of it when she didn’t wake at first, but then I saw she was stone dead.”
    Applegate nodded. “And you helped her dress for bed?”
    “Yes, sir. I always did. But she was in a terrible state tonight. I couldn’t hardly get her to sit still long enough to let me brush her hair and take off her makeup.”
    The constable made note of that. “Did she say what had upset her?”
    “No, she wasn’t much like that. Not one to confide as some ladies are.”
    “But she had heard about Mr. Lincoln being killed?”
    “I’m sure I don’t know. I only heard about it just now.”
    “You didn’t go downstairs with the rest of the staff after Mrs. Parker had retired?”
    “No, sir. I had my program on tonight. Mrs. Parker was always kind enough to let me listen to Gert and Daisy on her wireless, the one in her sitting room.”
    “So you’d know if there was anyone else up here this evening? After she’d come up to bed?”
    “Oh yes, sir. There wasn’t nobody. I’d’ve seen if someone come through the sitting room, and she always kept the hallway door locked.”
    The girl glanced at the lifeless, negligee-clad form that lay with one bare white arm thrown gracefully over its head. Mason was kneeling beside the bed, patting his wife’s