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about Imogen’s macabre behaviour as well, which was one mercy. John tried to think whether Imogen had actually committed an indictable offence, and what was going to be done about it. The idea of Eloise’s daughter being publicly punished was unthinkable. But probably something could be worked out – the Ingrams were amazingly loyal. John Shilling’s practice was an old family one; his grandfather had actually been summoned on the terrible day that Lucienne Ingram had taken the meat axe to her brother. He had helped the family to cover up the facts then, just as John himself would probably help to cover them up now. Presently he would tidy himself up, sluice his face and hands and comb his hair in readiness for that little supper . . .
    He was almost, but not quite, over the boundaries of sleep – the room so warm, the brandy so seductively smooth – and he was allowing himself a brief, delicious daydream in which Eloise Ingram received him in a clinging silk gown and nothing else, and permitted certain preliminary intimacies. There was a gratifying flicker between his legs – have to quench
that
before supper! – and he was just thinking he would look to see what time it was when there was a crash and a scream from somewhere upstairs.
    John was rudely jerked out of his half-romantic, half-lascivious doze. He leapt instinctively to his feet, and there was a moment of sudden sick dizziness. He grasped the mantel to steady himself – that last double brandy! – and turned to the door. Someone was running sobbingly down the stairs and coming across the hall. Whoever it was was panting with unaccustomed exertion or fear, and somewhere on the other side of the house somebody was shouting something.
    The door to the warm sitting room was flung open and Aunt Dilys stood there, her face doughy white.
    â€˜Dr Shilling, praise God you’re still here. Please will you come at once.’
    Royston, thought John, fumbling on the floor for his medical bag, remembering it was outside in the hall. Myocardial infarct after all, blast it! He crossed the room and caught irritated sight of his reflection in the wall mirror. He was flushed and pouchy-eyed from drowsiness and befuddled-looking from alcohol. Not good for Eloise to see him like this, not good at all. Still, no time to think about that. Got to get to Royston, poor old chap, see what’s to be done. He found his case and made for the upper floors, almost colliding with Thalia on the half-landing.
    â€˜What the devil’s happening? Is it Royston?’ He sounded just surprised enough to cover any faint slurring.
    Thalia clutched his arm. ‘Oh God, John, it’s appalling. I didn’t think she was capable of—And there’s nothing to be done for either of them, absolutely nothing. But you’d better see it for yourself.’ She led the way to the large double room at the house’s rear.
    As John stood in the doorway of Royston Ingram’s room, he had the confused impression that he was standing on the threshold of a stage set. The warm coppery stench of fresh blood filled the room, and there was a dull malevolent light as well, a red, smeary light . . . He blinked and forced his mind to focus.
    Royston Ingram lay on the big double bed, Eloise beside him. Her skin was the colour of cold pale marble, but the marble was streaked with red where the blood had soaked into her ivory silk robe. Stabbed? When? By whom?
    As he bent over the bed, John had the really appalling thought that it was not ten minutes since he had been visualising her in just such a robe – clinging and sensuous – leaning over a table, pouring a cool wine into his glass . . . Sickness rose unforgivably in his throat, and he swallowed hard and forced himself to take note of everything.
    On the side table, near to Eloise’s hand, was a small cut-glass tumbler, and John thought: the mineral water for the phenobarbital. The double