Abbershaw looked at her steadily.
‘Dr Whitby has pronounced it heart failure,’ he said. The girl’s eyes widened, and her expression became puzzled.
‘Then – then the dagger – ?’ she began.
‘Ssh!’ Abbershaw raised his hand warningly, for in the house a door had creaked, and now Anne Edgeware, a heavily embroidered Chinese dressing-gown over her frivolous pyjamas, crossed the grass towards them.
‘Here I am,’ she said. ‘I had to come like this. You don’t mind, do you? I really couldn’t bring myself to put on my clothes at the hour I usually take them off. What’s all the fun about?’
Abbershaw coughed: this kind of girl invariably embarrassed him.
‘It’s awfully good of you to come down like this,’ he said awkwardly. ‘And I’m afraid what I am going to say will sound both absurd and impertinent, but if you would just take it as a personal favour to me I would be eternally grateful.’ He hesitated nervously, and then hurried on again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t offer you any explanation at the moment, but if you would just answer one or two questions and then forget I ever asked them, you would be rendering me a great service.’
The girl laughed.
‘How thrilling!’ she said. ‘It sounds just like a play! I’ve got just the right costume too, haven’t I? I feel I shall break out into song at any moment. What is it?’
Abbershaw was still ill at ease, and he spoke with unwonted timidity.