consider whether I do want to return. Goodbye, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Goodbye, Mr King.’
I walked slowly back to the road, wondering whether Marcus would fathom King, and elicit from him the actions that would have left Everett open to blackmail.
I had come here with the intention of asking Philippa about the shooting party incident, and had found no tactful way to do so. There was one person who would be able to answer my question on that score: Caroline Windham herself.
As I walked home, I thought about Philippa, and about Caroline Windham. Philippa had been shaken by the news of her husband’s death but remained calm, almost unruffled. Caroline had not yet learned of her lover’s death. If the Runcie family were keeping quiet about it, she would be in the dark all weekend. Would that be a blessing, or would she rather know?
According to my Aunt Berta, who is the fount of all social wisdom, Caroline Windham had loved Everett Runcie since she was twelve years old. It did not seem fair for her to be left out.
If Marcus arranged for Miss Windham to be interviewed today or tomorrow, then she would hear the news from the police. Otherwise, she would learn of the death on Monday, at the breakfast table. Doubtless there would be something in The Times.
That would be cruel. She should be told before the whole world knew.
Shortly after I arrived home, I placed a call to Marcus at the hotel. Unsurprisingly, he was not available. Nor did he return my call.
By the time my head hit the pillow, I had decided that tomorrow I would visit the Viking Queen in her lair.
Lacking genuine connections and the ability to talk long and lucidly about horses and dogs, I usually stay clear of grand country houses. Now here I was, the morning after visiting Philippa Runcie at Kirkley Hall, driving along the broad approach towards Somersgill. This was the seat of Lord and Lady Fotheringham whose noblesse oblige obliged them to give penniless but well-bred Caroline Windham house room.
A group of young deer looked up from their grazing as my car wheels scattered gravel. Grand and solid, Somersgill occupies a dip in the valley, east of the town, a situation that gives the estate protection from the worst of the elements. Imagine a capital L, put an extra tail on top, and turn it on its side, then you will have the shape of three-storey Somersgill. The front of the house faces south, towards extensive parklands and hunting grounds. Eastward and westward lie farmland and the moor.
As befits a policeman’s daughter, I approached from the side.
Had I attended finishing school, or paid more attention to Aunt Berta, I should have known the protocol for paying a visit not to Lady Fortheringham but to one of her houseguests. The last thing I wanted was to explain myself to a Fotheringham. Even facing Caroline Windham struck me as a daunting prospect. But I felt I was right. It was only fair that she should be told about Runcie’s death before it became common knowledge.
I circled round to the back of the house and drew up near the stable block. No groom or stable lad sprang into action, or came to enquire who I was and what I wanted.
Searching my bag, I found a card that mercifully had just my name and not my occupation. It would be too alarming to send up a card announcing me as a private investigator. Given the size of the house, there must be some nook or cranny where I could be hidden until Caroline Windham put in an appearance. Sheer boredom and curiosity must ensure that she would come to see what I wanted.
As I knocked on the door, it struck me as absurd that I should be the one to break the news of her lover’s death. But I did have the ulterior motive of hoping to slip in an enquiry about the injury she sustained on the first day of grouse shooting, and whether there was a possibility that the shot that grazed her arm had been intended for Runcie.
A butler opened the door. Entering, I handed him my card and glimpsed the interior, feeling a slight shock at the shabby appearance of the place. Like Kirkley Hall, Somersgill had been requisitioned as a hospital during the war. Unlike Kirkley Hall, which thanks to Philippa’s coffers had been restored to more than its former glory, Somersgill still showed the signs of requisitioning, and