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    The thought of going back to the studio, of trying to work in the room where Oliver had been killed, was something I dreaded. But I couldn’t avoid it, there was so much I would have to clear up. So the sooner the better, I argued to myself. It was like falling off a horse, and getting straight back on again before you lost your nerve completely.
    To my surprise the courtyard was empty of cars. I glimpsed old Billy Moon sweeping out the stable, but he drew back quickly as if not wanting to be noticed.
    As I let myself in I felt a curious sensation of reliving yes terday. I felt almost convinced that I was going to be con fronted with Oliver’s body stretched out on the floor, his head battered and bloody, the grotesque fertility god lying beside him. It took every ounce of willpower to make myself climb the stairs.
    Astonishingly, the studio had been left tidy. Someone— Neil, presumably—had even thought to have the bloodstains scrubbed off the carpet, only a damp patch remaining. All the same, after the first glance I kept my eyes averted.
    There had been several letters on the mat downstairs, and a small package which contained the samples of gold tassels I’d sent for a week ago. Everything seemed unreal—as if nothing to do with me—and I just wanted to turn tail and run. It had been a mad idea to come to the studio this morning. I realised for the first time that someone around here—probably someone whom I knew personally—was a murderer. The thought made me feel sick with panic.
    Yet I felt duty bound to stay and do my best to clear things up. Commissioned jobs couldn’t be abandoned half done, and there were all kinds of loose ends to be tied off. I could hardly press Sir Robert for instructions, at least for the next day or two, so in the meantime it was up to me to do my best.
    In cases where we were still at the early planning stage, there was little problem. The clients could merely be in formed that the Design Studio was regretfully unable to com plete the job, and I could recommend another firm of interior designers to take over. I mentally put these aside for the mo ment, as well as the jobs in which there were just a few bits and pieces to be finished off.
    I was left with three undertakings which presented a real headache. Oliver had planned a dramatic revamp for the con sulting rooms of a fashionable chiropractor in Cheltenham, and work was due to begin next week—the timing here had been an important factor in the contract. Then there was the new grill-room extension of the Golden Peacock restaurant over towards Stow-in-the-Wold, where the decorators were al ready in—almost finished, in fact—but it looked as if there was going to be a delay with delivery of the specially woven peacock-motif carpet. And there was Myddleton Manor in the nearby village of Haslop St. John where Lady Chorley was having an expensive kitchen installed. At present the old kitchen and dairy had been stripped to a bare shell awaiting the laying of cork flooring and the arrival of cabinets and cupboards, ovens and hobs, fridge and freezer and dishwasher, and everything would need chasing up to be fitted ready for use in time for Lord and Lady Chorley’s re turn from their holiday.
    I also made a note of Mrs. Cynthia Fairford at Dodford Old Rectory. Her new drawing room was still only a prelimi nary design on paper, but considering the lady’s special rela tionship with Oliver it seemed to me that some tactful han dling was called for.
    I heard the sound of a car entering the courtyard, then there were footsteps on the stairs. It was Neil Grant.
    “Hallo, Tracy. I dropped in at Honeysuckle Cottage just now and your cleaning woman told me that I’d find you here.”
    “Tracy?” I queried, “Whatever happened to Miss Yorke?”
    “Police business has to be conducted with a certain formal ity. You ought to appreciate that.”
    “And isn’t this police business now?”
    “Well, yes. But I wanted