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Lyvenden would have.
    The door opened and he looked up, expecting to see one of the servants, but it was Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.
    â€˜Hello, Haldean. I had to come back. I couldn’t credit it was really true.’
    â€˜How is everyone?’ asked Haldean. ‘How’s Bubble Robiceux?’
    Smith-Fennimore shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He wandered over to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel, resting his forehead on his hand. ‘This is a rotten show,’ he said eventually. ‘I never dreamed that Tim would pull a stunt like this.’ He walked over to the bed and sighed. ‘I can’t believe he did it. Shouldn’t we put a sheet over him or something?’
    Haldean went to stand beside him by the bed. ‘I suppose we should, really. If the servants have got to come in here, it’ll give them a nasty shock. I haven’t a clue where the sheets are, but if you can lift him out of the way, I can get the bedspread . . . Thanks, Fennimore.’ He made to put the cover over the body, but Smith-Fennimore stopped him.
    â€˜Wait.’ He leaned forward and closed Preston’s eyes, then stepped back with a grimace. ‘I never thought I’d have to do that for Tim,’ he said softly. ‘What a bloody life! I need a drink. Want to join me?’
    Haldean shook his head. ‘I’ve got to wait until someone comes for Lyvenden’s things.’
    As he opened the door to leave, the music of the ball sounded loudly up the stairs. Haldean winced. It was all still going on down there. And up here? The ball was over. For Tim it had finished far too soon. All the weary mechanisms of sudden death would have to begin, the inquest, the statements, the questions . . . The ball was well and truly over.
    Haldean sat warming his back in the sun on the windowsill of Lord Lyvenden’s former bedroom. He looked at Arthur Stanton thoughtfully. It was Sunday morning and nearly everyone else had gone to church. The house was very quiet. He had asked Stanton to stay behind because he badly wanted to talk things over with him. He really wanted to find out what Isabelle thought, but Isabelle, still pale after the tragedy of last night, was devoting all her time to Bubble and Squeak and had gone off to church with them and the others.
    Preston’s body had been moved to a spare bedroom on the third floor until it could be taken away, for which fact Haldean was sincerely grateful.
    Stanton moved restlessly. ‘Do we really have to be in here, Jack? I can’t say I like it much.’
    Haldean looked at him wryly. ‘I’m sorry, Arthur. I can’t say I like it much either, but I thought it’d be a good chance to talk about things while the house was more or less deserted.’
    â€˜Talk?’ asked Stanton. ‘What’s there to talk about?’
    Haldean ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look, I don’t know how you’re going to take this, but I’ve been thinking about last night. Do you honestly believe Tim was suicidal?’
    â€˜I suppose I’ve got to believe it, haven’t I?’
    â€˜Have you, Arthur? I don’t know if I do.’ He got off the windowsill and wandered round the room, eventually stopping by the bed. The depression made by Preston’s body was still visible. ‘What if Tim didn’t commit suicide at all?’
    Stanton looked at him with puzzled hazel eyes. ‘He must have done, Jack. It couldn’t have been an accident. He left a note.’
    Haldean shook his head. ‘No, it couldn’t have been an accident.’ He spoke very hesitantly. ‘I was wondering if he’d been murdered.’
    â€˜
Murdered?
’ Stanton half laughed, then stopped as he saw his friend’s serious face. He drew a deep breath. ‘Of course he wasn’t murdered,’ he said patiently. ‘He committed suicide. The Chief Constable said so.’
    â€˜And you think