Death at Wentwater Court

by Carola Dunn

Great excitement yesterday--my editor sent me the cover art of the Polish edition of my very first mystery, Death at Wentwater Court, first published in 1994.

The book, Daisy Dalrymple's first adventure, is set in England in 1923--I'm not sure this cover quite brings the '20s to mind. This is the original US hardcover (and ebook). England, definitely, but not specifically 1920s.

Even this, the UK cover, isn't particularly '20s-ish.

The two German editions give a somewhat better feel of the period.

             

The US paperback is pretty good.

 
The audio book gives Daisy what looks like a Roman helmet...

In the end, I think my favourite is the large print edition.

What do you think?

Excerpt:

"Will you skate with us this morning, Daisy?" Fenella asked. "I know you're frightfully busy but this weather may not last and we don't get such spiffing freezes very often."

"Yes, I'd like to, if I can borrow skates?"

"We have a cupboardful," James assured her. "There's bound to be something to fit you."

"Jolly good. I'll finish off the roll of film in the camera down at the lake, and spend the rest of the morning developing my pictures."

Sir Hugh, emerging from his newspaper, told her he owned shares in the Eastman Kodak company and asked about the developing and printing process. Daisy explained as she ate. James and Fenella lingered over their coffee until she had finished her breakfast, then took her to look for a pair of

skates.

Outside, the air was crisp and still. Daisy couldn't resist leaving a footprint or two in the glistening untrodden snow beside the path. It crunched underfoot.

James carried the skating boots down the hill for her as she was laden with camera and tripod. While she set them up, he and Fenella sat on the bench and put on their skates. They circled slowly at the near end of the lake, waiting for her.

"Go ahead," she called, already chilled fingers fumbling at the stiff catch that attached the camera to the tripod. "I'll be with you in half a mo."

Waving to her, they joined hands and whizzed off towards the bridge. As they reached it, James yelled, "Stop!"

They swerved to a halt beneath the arch. James moved cautiously forward into the black shadow cast by the low sun.

And then Fenella screamed.

Amazon Kindle: Death at Wentwater Court
Also available for Nook

Gone West now in paperback

by Carola Dunn

GONE WEST (a BritSpeak idiom meaning died or disappeared) is the 20th mystery in my Daisy Dalrymple series, set in England in the 1920s. It came out in hardcover in the US (and paperback in the UK) a year ago and the US paperback edition is just out. It's also available for Kindle, Nook, and other ebook formats, and in large print.

This is an excerpt from the first chapter. You can read a bit from later in the book here: http://historicalfictionexcerpts.blogspot.com/2012/01/gone-west-daisy-dalrymple-mystery-by.html

Lucy had chosen a table next to the ornamental brass rail, banked with flowers, that separated the green and gold balcony from the oval opening to the main dining room below. Though a professional photographer, Lucy was also a member of fashionable society, from sleek dark Eton crop to scarlet-painted fingertips to barely knee-length hemline. It was typical of her to want a good view of the other patrons of the establishment.

That was not the reason she gave for her choice. "Darling, I thought we'd better hide up here. I have a frightful feeling that Sybil has probably turned into the sort of dowd one doesn't care to be seen with."

"How unkind! Why?"

"You said she wrote from a farm, in Derbyshire of all places."

"What's wrong with Derbyshire? Ever heard of Chatsworth?"

"Of course, but the country seat of the Duke of Devonshire can hardly be compared to a farm-house!"

"Hush, I think this must be Sybil coming up the stairs now. She looks vaguely familiar. And quite smart enough to associate with me, if not at your exalted level. You're always telling me I have no notion of fashion."

The young woman ascending the staircase wore a heather-mixture tweed costume. Daisy was no expert, but the skirt and jacket looked to her to be quite nicely cut, though well-worn, making the best of a figure somewhat on the sturdy side. The lavender cloche hat, adorned with a small spray of speckled feathers, matched the silk blouse. A string of pearls, silk stockings and good leather shoes, low-heeled, completed the picture of a well-to-do if not fashion-conscious country dweller visiting the capital.

Sybil Sutherby certainly didn't look like a typical farmer's wife. Though, like Daisy, her only make-up was a dab of powder on her nose and a touch of lipstick, her face was not noticeably weathered. In fact, she was rather pale, accentuating a dismayed expression that Daisy put down to Lucy's unexpected presence.

"Hello, Sybil. How nice to see you after all these years," said Daisy, stretching the truth somewhat.

"Daisy, you haven't changed a bit." They shook hands.

The waiter seated Sybil, handed menus all round, and departed.

"You remember Lucy? Fotheringay as was."

"Lucy. Of course." She hesitated. "It's Lady Gerald, isn't it?"

"So you keep up with the news, Mrs. Sutherby," Lucy drawled. "How do you do?"

"For pity's sake," Daisy said, annoyed, "we were all spotty schoolgirls together. Let's not stand on our dignities. I'm going to decide what I want for lunch, and then I'd like to hear what you're up to these days, Sybil."

Discussing the choices on the à la carte menu thawed the ice between Lucy and Sybil a bit, to Daisy's relief. 

.....

The waiter returned and took their order.

After a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, Sybil said abruptly, "I've read some of your articles, Daisy. You write very well."

Lucy gave Daisy a knowing look. "What about you, Sybil?" she asked with a hint of a sarcastic inflection. "Have you settled into a life of cosy domesticity?"

Sybil flushed. "Far from it. My husband was killed in the War. I was lucky enough to find a job quite quickly, as...as secretary to an author. A live-in job, where I can have my little girl with me." Her hand went to her necklace. "I didn't even have to sell Mother's pearls. And I've been there ever since."

Daisy decided it was a bit late to start expressing condolences which would inevitably lead to further, endless condolences. Everyone had lost someone in the War including her own brother and her fiancé, or in the influenza pandemic, which had killed her father, the late Viscount Dalrymple. She seized on a less emotionally fraught topic. "Is your author someone I might have read?"

"I doubt it. A rather...specialised field. But I did hope to have a word with you, Daisy..." She glanced sideways at Lucy.

"About your work? Go ahead. Lucy won't mind. Underneath the frivolous exterior, she's a working woman too."

"I don't think..."

"You haven't got yourself involved in the production of 'blue' books, have you?" Lucy's question was blunt, but for once her tone was discreetly lowered.

"Certainly not!"

"Sorry. It's just that the way you said 'a rather specialised field' tends to leave one to jump to conclusions."

Daisy laughed. "I'm prepared to swear that's not the conclusion I jumped to. What's the matter, Sybil?"

"I'd prefer to talk to you later."

"No can do. Lucy and I have an appointment with our joint editor immediately after lunch. But Lucy knows all my secrets—well, almost all. She's not going to blurt out your troubles to all and sundry."

"Silent as the grave," said Lucy. "Cross my heart and hope to die. My lips are sealed."

"Be serious," Daisy admonished her severely, "or why should Sybil trust you?"

"It's not so much—" Sybil began, but the waiter interrupted, arriving with their soup.

By the time he went away again, she had made up her mind.

"All right, if you say so, Daisy. I wasn't sure whether... I know you married a detective, and I heard that you've helped him to investigate several crimes."

"Lucy, have you been telling tales, after I've been crying up your discretion?"

"Darling, I'm not the only one aware of your criminous activities. What about your Indian friend?"

"I hardly think Sakari would have any opportunity to spill the beans to Sybil!"

"But there have been at least a couple of other old school pals you've saved from the hangman. Word gets around."

"It's nothing like that!" Sybil exclaimed. "Not murder, I mean. Just a mystery of sorts. There's probably nothing in it."

"In what?" Daisy asked.

"It's an uncomfortable, troubled atmosphere, really. I feel as if something's going on, but I can't pin it down. That's why I want your help."

"If you can't be precise," said Lucy impatiently, "how do you expect her to advise you?"

"I was hoping you'd come and stay for a few days, Daisy. I'm hoping you'll tell me it's all in my imagination."

Lucy looked at her as if she was mad. Daisy was intrigued. She had indeed been caught up in the investigation of a number of unpleasant occurrences, but they had all been concrete acts of a violent nature. A mysterious atmosphere would make a change and might prove interesting. What was more, with no crime in the offing, Alec could hardly object to her going to stay with an old friend.

 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/gone-west-carola-dunn/1104154902?ean=9781250021595

http://www.amazon.com/Gone-West-Dalrymple-Mystery-Mysteries/dp/1250021596/ref=pd_sim_sbs_b_5

Large print

Anthem for Doomed Youth II

by Carola Dunn,

 

 author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries, the Cornish Mysteries, and over 30 Regencies. 

I'm revisiting Anthem for Doomed Youth because it's been chosen as part of a Barnes and Noble promotion for Downton Abbey. There seem to be some problems with the promo--many stores apparently haven't even heard of it, and though my newly reprinted book is in the stores, I've so far had no reports of it being sighted in those displays that have been put up!

My previous excerpts from Anthem are here: http://historicalfictionexcerpts.blogspot.com/2012/03/anthem-for-doomed-youth.html
along with more information about the book.

 [Daisy has been playing with her toddler twins in the nursery when the parlourmaid comes to say Scotland Yard is on the phone.]

 

She hurried downstairs, filled with foreboding. When Alec rang up in the middle of the day, it invariably meant a disruption of their plans. Not that plans were ever anything but tentative when one's husband was a Detective Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, liable to be called to the outer reaches of the kingdom at a moment's notice.

She picked up the "daffodil" stand, sat down on the chair by the hall table, and put the receiver to her ear. "Tom?"

"Afternoon, Mrs Fletcher. How's my godson?"

"Screaming for Dada. Healthy lungs! But I assume he won't be seeing him for a while?"

"The Chief'll have to tell you about that. Can you hold on half a mo, please, he's on another telephone."

"Of course. How is Mrs Tring?"

"Blooming." DS Tring adored his wife, a large woman though not as large as Tom. That didn't stop his having a wonderful way with female servants when he needed to extract information. "And Miss Miranda?"

"Likewise. Her vocabulary grows by leaps and bounds. Not quite up to yours yet."

"I'll have to look to my laurels."

Daisy pictured his luxuriant moustache twitching as he grinned. "Belinda's pretty good too. It's her school sports day on Saturday. Oh no, don't tell me—"

"There's no way of knowing, Mrs Fletcher. Here's the Chief."

"Alec? Darling, you're not going to miss Bel's sports day, are you?"

"I hope not. If we haven't made an arrest by then, I might be able to sneak away for the afternoon. Epping can't be more than forty miles from Saffron Walden."

"You're only going to Epping? I was afraid it might be Northumberland."

"You always are, love. I can't think why."

"Because it's so far away. But Epping— You'll come home for the night, then?"

"Yes, but don't wait dinner for me."

"Don't half the murderers in London bury bodies in Epping Forest?"

"It's often been considered a convenient spot." Alec sounded amused.

"If that's where you're going, don't forget to take Wellington boots. It's still belting down."

"The forecast's for a clearing trend tonight. Let's hope they're right for once."

Daisy jumped to the obvious conclusion. "So you are going to dig up a body in Epping Forest?"

"Three of them. For a start. I'm only telling you because there's no conceivable way you can get yourself mixed up in this case."

"Of course not! But do be careful, darling. I'd hate for the fourth body to be you."

"No fear of that, love. I must run."

"Should I tell Mrs Dobson to leave something out for you?"

"No, I'll pick up a bite to eat somewhere. Coming, Tom!" He said good-bye and rang off.

Daisy hung up. Three bodies! Assuming they had all been killed by the same person—a madman? Or perhaps a member of an East End gang?—there would be a lot of pressure on the police to arrest someone before another murder followed. Not that Alec didn't always clear up his cases as quickly as possible.

Still, today was Wednesday. It didn't seem likely that he would be finished by Saturday, or even free to take an afternoon off. Poor Belinda! Though happy at school, she was so looking forward to seeing them. She would have to make do with her stepmother. Luckily she was used to Daddy disappearing at unpredictable intervals. She had been a detective's daughter much longer than Daisy had been a detective's wife. 

So Daisy goes off to visit her stepdaughter (at the school I went to much later on!), and inevitable gets mixed up in a murder--which may be connected with Alec's case--or maybe not. 

RumRunners on Trial

By Carola Dunn
 
Here are some of the extraordinary stories, often amusing, I read while researching for the 17th Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, BLACK SHIP.

 US cover

In BLACK SHIP, the seventeenth Daisy Dalrymple mystery, my protagonist, Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher, and her family move in next door to the family of a high-class wine merchant. At the same time, an old acquaintance from her US adventure, THE CASE OF THE MURDERED MUCKRAKER, turns up on the Fletchers' doorstep.

US hardcover

Lambert was then a youthful, hapless, helpless, hopeless FBI agent. 

Now, he announces, he is a Prohibition agent, sent to England to find out who is shipping forbidden alcohol to America. He starts spying on the neighbours--very embarrassing. Then a body is found in the communal garden and Daisy finds herself involved in the affairs of bootleggers, rumrunners and mobsters. Not at all what a respectable mother of twins is accustomed to.

UK cover
Also available as e-books

                        
In researching for this book, I came across a library book, The Black Ships (black ships is what the coast guard called the rumrunning ships), by Everett S. Allen. Mr Allen grew up on the New England coast and knew many people who had been involved with rumrunning during Prohibition. He interviewed many of them as well as doing research in the US Coast Guard archives. His book sent me to the Coast Guard on my own behalf, to clear up a few points, and the USCG sent me their history of the period: Rum War at Sea, by Commander Malcolm F. Willoughby.
The USCG was in a very difficult position. Prohibition had been passed by a narrow margin, so a large proportion of the US population were on the side of the bootleggers, at least until organised crime took over. This resulted in a "disheartening number of releases and acquittals by certain courts, when there should have been forfeitures and convictions..." [Willoughby].

 
One Federal judge in Connecticut was so anti-Prohibition that he virtually never convicted a rumrunner, however convincing the evidence.

In one case, a small cargo vessel was stopped in Long Island Sound. The Coast Guards couldn't find any liquor aboard. They suspected concealed tanks built behind false bulkheads, but at sea it wasn't possible to make the measurements necessary to find them. She was released, but later was seized for running without lights (a common ploy to make the rumrunners harder to find, which led to the name Black Ships). She was taken into custody. Tied up at a USCG pier, she was measured and hidden tanks full of liquor were indeed discovered. The court pronounced that as she had been seized for running without lights, that was the only offence for which she could be prosecuted. Ship and cargo were returned to the owners.

A Norwegian steamer, Sagatind, was found drifting on "Rum Row", forty miles offshore, well outside the three-mile limit. The Coast Guard fired shots across her bow to stop her, without eliciting any reaction. They boarded, and found the crew drunk and incapable, some injured from fighting amongst themselves. They also found 43,000 cases of liquor and a large amount of cash. However the Government failed to prove any liquor had been sold, rather than just transported in international waters. Ship and crew were released by the court. 

Large Print

The USCG was permitted by law to fire upon ships that refused to halt when ordered to do so. Inevitably, this led to deaths on both sides. In one such case, three seamen on a black ship were killed. Because of conflicting evidence, the coastguardsmen were tried for murder. They were acquitted, but when the captain of the black ship was tried for smuggling, the jury acquitted him, too, saying he had been punished enough by having his thumb shot off in the incident.

The 3-mile limit was extended to 12 miles or one hour's sailing time, by international treaty in 1925. This made it much more difficult to pinpoint the position of black ships, and proving how fast they were able to sail was no easier. By this time many bootleggers were highly organised. They could afford their own experts in navigation, whose testimony refuted the Coast Guard's careful measurements--at least when judges and juries were already far from keen on producing a conviction.

On one occasion, an overzealous coast guard falsified his log to show the rumrunners were within territorial waters. This was a serious offense, the log being a legal document. The chief warrant officer concerned was found guilty and reduced in rank.

There was no effort to falsify the position in another case, off the West coast. The Coast Guard found a known black ship, the Federalship, far outside the limits and trailed her from Oregon to California, hoping to catch her actually breaking the law. She flew the flag of Panama. The decision was taken by the San Francisco headquarters to seize the ship. Two USCG cutters came up to her and ordered her to stop and let them come aboard. The captain refused, saying that for all he knew they were "a lot of bloody pirates." After being fired on--and hit--several times, Federalship stopped. She was taken to San Francisco Bay and the cargo of liquor removed (it disappeared from storage!). A Federal Grand Jury indicted the captain and crew for conspiracy. The defence claimed the seizure was illegal, and an act of war as she was Panama registered. The US attorney said that under Panama's law Federalship had lost her registry by engaging in rumrunning and so was a renegade pirate. However, the black ship had not engaged in any illegal activity--had not, in fact, entered territorial waters--while under pursuit from the Columbia River to the point where she was seized. She was released and the USCG had to tow her all the way back to where they had captured her.

The law required the Coast Guard to seize not only any liquor they found aboard a black ship, but the ship itself and all its equipment. This led to the rumrunners turning the tables. They'd go to a friendly local jurisdiction and accuse the individual Coastguardsmen of stealing their tackle--charts, sextant, timepiece and so on. The US attorney would request a transfer to Federal court, where the rumrunners didn't pursue the case, but in the meantime the newspapers made hay with the charges of theft and the Coast Guard became ever less popular.

The rumrunners used to communicate from shore to ship by illegal radio transmissions in code. One radioman who was arrested was fined $10 for violation of a fire ordinance, the only charge that a hostile jury would make stick. The Prohibition authorities managed to crack the code of one prolific transmitter. They found themselves in a quandary: if they prosecuted, the rumrunners would know the code had been cracked. Not only would no further information about ship movements be overheard, but to persuade a jury of conspiracy to break the law the Coast Guard would have to reveal its methods. They decided not to prosecute.

In one prosecution, when a motorboat had been seized loaded with liquor, the Coast Guard witness was asked what he had found aboard. "One hundred cases," he said. The judge responded, "There's no law against carrying cases," and he dismissed the case.

One final episode among many: Off Key West in Florida, a black ship was halted by gunfire. The boarders were told they had killed the skipper, who had fallen overboard. The Key West population was almost wholly anti-Prohibition and there was talk of lynching the coastguardsman responsible. He was charged with first degree murder by the father of the captain. At the hearing before a justice of the peace, the charge was reduced to manslaughter because the body of the victim could not be found. The coastguardsman was released on bail. Subsequent investigation revealed that the skipper had disappeared before in similar circumstances and had reappeared in Cuba. This time, apparently, he had swum to shore and made his way to his girlfriend's house in Tampa. When the case went to the Grand Jury, some months later, it was dismissed because no prosecution witnesses turned up!

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Carola Dunn, author of the Daisy Dalrymple Mysteries, the Cornish Mysteries, and over 30 Regencies. 

Anthem for Doomed Youth, the 20th Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, came out in 2011, but it's just been issued in paperback. This is the poem quoted at the beginning of the book, which lent me the title and inspired the story.

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs--
The shrill demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers, the tenderness of silent minds,
And each slow dusk, a drawing-down of blinds.
                         

                Wilfred Owen

(killed in action just a week before the Armistice)

The UK edition

 On the whole my Daisy mysteries, set in the 1920s, are light-hearted little murder stories, but obviously this one has a serious theme. However Daisy's cheerful nature peeks through. In fact, the book divides into two interwoven threads, following Daisy and Alec through separate investigations which may--or may not--be connected. I'll give you a taste of each.

Here are Daisy and her friend Sakari:

DI Gant was not lying in wait, but as they reached the pudding course, a message was brought to them: He had arrived and wanted to see Daisy.

Daisy was speechless. She had thought herself safe for the day, though she should have considered the irregular hours worked by detectives. Somehow she hadn't expected Gant to stay on the job late. After all, he had abandoned the triple burial site before Alec even arrived there.

Sakari spoke for her. "Tell the inspector that Mrs Fletcher will receive him when she has finished her dinner."

"I've lost my appetite," said Daisy, pushing away her enormous slice of sponge cake layered with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.

"Nonsense, Daisy. It will do him good to wait. If you let him spoil your meal, you give him a victory."

"We can't have that." Daisy took another look at the cake and decided it was still irresistible—worth lingering over, in fact. She savoured every bite.

After a twenty-minute wait, Detective Inspector Gant was even more irritable than earlier in the day. When Daisy and Sakari joined him and his silent acolyte in the writing room, he said rudely, "I don't need Mrs Prasad."

"But I do," said Daisy. "I'd be extremely uncomfortable shut up alone in here with two men who are virtual strangers."

"But we're police officers, madam!"

"So is my husband. Perhaps I should send for him to come and—"

"That won't be necessary," Gant conceded with a martyred air. "Mrs Prasad may stay."

As Sakari had already sat down and looked singularly immoveable, he had little choice, short of arresting her for obstruction. It was a near thing, though, when a waiter brought in the ladies' coffee, and Sakari decided she wanted a liqueur with it. Daisy was sure she was just being awkward, and she guessed Gant realised it too. His face turned an interesting shade of mauve.

"Daisy, will you have something? A Drambuie? I know it's your favourite."

"Lovely, thank you." Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She could do with a bracer.

So Gant had to wait for the waiter to go off and return before he could start the interview. He paced round and round the writing table till Sakari said, "Do take a seat, Inspector. You are making me quite dizzy. If you insist on disturbing us at this hour, you must take us as you find us."

"It's only nine o'clock! And may I point out, I'd no intention of disturbing you." He sat down. "You're at liberty to leave!"

"Do you imagine I could rest easy," Sakari said soulfully, "while you interrogate my dearest friend?"

Daisy frowned at her irrepressible friend. Sakari sighed and fell silent. The waiter came in with the liqueurs and poured out their coffee.

"Anything else, madam?"

Sakari opened her mouth. Daisy and Gant waited on tenterhooks, but all she said was, "No, thank you. That will be all. For now."

Gant pursed his lips but managed to contain himself in the face of the final provocation. "Mrs Fletcher, all I want is for you to go over again exactly what you saw and did when you found the body."

"If you're hoping I'll remember some clue I didn't mention before, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. But here goes."

US edition

And here is her husband DCI Alec Fletcher of Scotland Yard:


The butler announced him. A tall, lean man who had been standing staring out of a window, came forward to greet him, walking with the aid of a stick. He moved stiffly, but his shoulders were unbowed by age, his steel-grey hair still thick. Observing his lined face and liver-spotted hands, knowing the age of his son, Alec reckoned he must be in his seventies.

"Chief Inspector, Cheriton did not inform me of the purport of your visit, but I can only assume you bring bad news."

"I'm afraid so, sir. Won't you sit down?"

Sir Daniel raised his chin with an impertinence-depressing stare, then thought better of it. With a sigh and a faint, ironic smile, he said, "We none of us want to admit the influence of anno Domini, do we? Perhaps I will."

He moved to the table and took the seat at the end, motioning to Alec to join him. Alec was pulling out a chair when the door was flung open and a plump, fair girl-child burst in.

"Grandfather, they said there's a policeman—" She stopped dead on seeing Alec. "Oh!"

"You were not invited, Delia." The baronet's voice was icy. "I will not have you rushing about in this hoydenish manner."

"It's my daddy who's missing!" she cried. "You don't care."

"Of course I care."

"Then why didn't you—"

"Don't argue. Go back to your mother at once. You will be told what you need to know in due course."

He was unduly harsh, Alec thought, but it was none of his business and, in any case, nothing would make him relate the grim story in her presence. In fact, he was glad the girl's mother and grandmother were also apparently to be excluded.

Delia glared at her grandfather, then her face crumpled and she ran from the room, sobbing noisily.

"My apologies, Chief Inspector. I don't know what they teach at that school she goes to, but it's clearly not self-restraint."

The simple fact of his speaking thus to a stranger, and a mere policeman at that, showed him not half so cool and calm as he would have liked to appear. His face had taken on a greyish tinge Alec didn't like. He looked every minute of his age.

However, he continued abruptly, "Please go ahead. I assume your presence indicates that my son is dead."

Alec sat down. "Pending positive identification by a member of the family, sir, so we believe. All the evidence points that way. Have you a photograph?"

Sir Daniel was prepared. He handed over a studio portrait in a silver frame of an Army officer, a major—in his late thirties, at a guess—in dress uniform. "It's not very recent. We don't go in for family photography. Well?"

Army officers in uniform tend to look very alike, yet there was no doubt in Alec's mind. "I'm sorry, this strongly resembles the deceased. We're still required to have someone make a personal identification, I'm afraid."

He inclined his head in acceptance. "Regulations must be observed. I take it Scotland Yard would not be interested had Vincent died a natural death."

"Correct."

"May I know...what happened?"

After a brief internal debate, Alec said, "The information could materially affect our investigation, sir, but if you will give me your word—"

"You need not fear that I shall talk to the press," the baronet said with a touch of anger.

"I'm sure of that, sir, but I must have your assurance that you won't tell any of the family, even. No one at all."

"You have my word."

"Mr Halliday was shot through the heart. Death must have been instantaneous."

There was silence while Sir Daniel absorbed this. Then he said, "May I at least tell the family that he didn't suffer?"

"If you wish." Alec didn't add that Spilsbury said Halliday had been bound hand and foot for several hours before death. He had undoubtedly suffered physical discomfort and considerable mental distress.