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seeping of colour came into the olive-gold cheeks. ‘ ’Bout thirty, that’s all she was.’ He bit his lip. ‘You can’t call that old.’
    Wexford let it pass. Elizabeth Nightingale had tried so hard with her creams and her muscle bracer that it seemed ungenerous, now that she was dead, to disillusion her admirers.
    ‘I’d like to know your movements last night. What time d’you knock off here and where did you go?’
    Sean said sullenly, ‘I knock off at five. I went home to my tea. I live alone in the village with my old lady. I had my tea and I watched telly all evening.’
    ‘Don’t you have a girl friend?’
    Instead of answering directly, Sean said, ‘You seen the girls round here?’ He gave Wexford a shifty look that gave him the appearance of a Greek pirate. ‘Someevenings I watch telly and some I go into town and play the juke box at the Carousel. What else is there to do in a dump like this?’
    ‘Don’t ask me, Lovell. I’m asking the questions. You watched television right up to the time you went to bed?’
    ‘That’s what I did. Never went out again. You can ask my old lady.’
    ‘Tell me what programmes you saw.’
    ‘There was Pop Panel, then the Hollywood musical till ten.’
    ‘You went to bed at ten?’
    ‘I don’t remember. I can’t remember what I saw and when I went to bed. How can I? I reckon we went on with our viewing after that. Yeah, it was Sammy Davis Junior, that’s what it was.’ The dark face lit suddenly with an almost religious awe. ‘My God, I’d like to be like him. I’d like to
be
him.’ Chilled by Wexford’s eyes, he shifted his own and said rapidly, ‘I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to get on with my work. Old Will’ll be after me.’
    He sidled past Wexford, roughly bruising cactus spikes as he made his escape. Suddenly in the doorway Mrs Cantrip loomed.
    ‘Your dinner’s ready in the kitchen, Sean. I’ve been looking all over for you. Get cracking, do, or it’ll be stone cold.’ Thankfully Sean marched out of the hothouse and, when no one called him back, made for the kitchen at a run.
    ‘Odd, that,’ said Wexford. ‘Sammy Davis was booked to appear on television last night, but the programme was cancelled at the last moment. They put on an old film instead.’ He patted Burden’s shoulder. ‘Off you go to lunch now, Mike. I’ll join you when I can.’
    He watched Burden go, and then, almost running himself, he caught up with Mrs Cantrip. ‘Is there anyone else living in this house or employed here that I haven’t yet seen?’
    ‘No, sir.’ Her look told him that she was still bemused with shock, the reins of the household as yet unsteady in her hands. ‘Would you be wanting a bite to eat?’ she asked tremulously. ‘You and the other police gentleman?’
    ‘No, thank you.’ Wexford put a firm hand under her elbow as she tripped at the terrace steps. ‘You can tell me one thing, though. Who were Mrs Nightingale’s friends? Who came visiting to the Manor?’
    She seemed pleased at this tribute to her dignity as a valued and confidential servant. ‘Mrs Nightingale was never one of them as gossips, sir, or passes the day on the telephone. The ladies she saw was to do with business, like, arranging bazaars and gymkhanas, if you know what I mean. Then …’ Her voice took on a sad importance, ‘Then there was
their
friends as came here to dine, Sir George and Lady Larkin-Smith, and Mr and Mrs Primero, and all the county folks, sir.’
    ‘Gentlemen friends? Please don’t be offended, Mrs Cantrip. These days a lady can have men friends without there being anything—er, wrong.’
    Mrs Cantrip shook her head vigorously. ‘Her friends was their friends, sir,’ she said, adding with a shade of sarcasm, ‘Would there be anything else you wanted to know?’
    ‘There is just one thing. A question of laundry. Whose job is it to change the linen in this house, the—er, sheets and towels?’
    ‘Mine, sir,’ said Mrs Cantrip,