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measure I told her to take. Had it been sufficient to render her unaware while this – this
butchery
was happening? The terrible poignancy of it struck him like a blow – the last thing I did for her!
    From the look of Eloise she was certainly dead, but John had to make sure; above all, he had to behave professionally. He noticed that a thin sheet had been drawn up over the lower half of the bodies.
    Royston’s skin was faintly blue-tinged, and there was a dribble of vomit over his chin. He might well have suffered the infarct before he was attacked, or he might have suffered it while he was being attacked. He was certainly dead; they were both certainly dead. You did not lose blood to this extent and survive. And Royston had been sedated as Eloise had, which meant that neither of them could have put up much of a fight.
    John moved unsteadily forward. There were things you had to remember in cases of violent death; you had to remember not to touch things, to determine causation as far as possible until the police surgeon arrived—
    Police. The word hit his mind and broke into splinters, and each splinter was etched with a different word. Investigations. Questions. Scandal and gossip. Newspaper reports. His mind was blurred by brandy and wine and numbed with shock, but he could see the headlines very clearly indeed.
Maniacal double murder . . . Publishing mogul dead . . .
    He felt for a pulse at wrist and neck and found none, and he managed to focus a light on to the pupils of both the victims’ eyes. Nothing again. He was dimly aware of Thalia explaining about being sure they were both dead but sending Dilys for him anyway.
    Of course they were both dead. It was unbearable but it had to be borne. He dare not let himself think of things such as coma states, somatic death . . . His shiningly beautiful Eloise was dead. Stabbed, quite obviously. He thought he said this aloud. ‘And I must – examine them. I must find the – the wounds.’
    â€˜Yes, of course.’
    Examine that body about which ten minutes earlier he had been fantasising. Peel back the thin silk, not in the way he had for years imagined doing, sensuously and intimately, but coldly and clinically, for no purpose other than to expose knife wounds, areas of trauma; to show up mutilations to that flesh around which he had woven those shameful, exciting dreams. His stomach betrayed him in earnest this time, and he had to make a dash for the adjoining bathroom. He hung over the washbasin, retching miserably. Disgusting.
    When the spasms finally stopped, the mirror gave him back an appalling reflection. He was grey and blotched with grief and panic, and his eyes were bloodshot.
    â€˜I can’t make the examination.’ He met Thalia’s eyes at last. ‘I simply can’t do it. They’re both dead, and they’ve obviously both been knifed. Or something. Royston probably died from coronary shock.’ He looked at Thalia. ‘But I can’t examine Eloise,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to call in someone else.’
    â€˜I understand.’
    â€˜It’s a job for the police. The coroner—’ He stopped short, and then managed to say, ‘Who did it? Was it Imogen?’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ said Thalia very softly. ‘Yes, it was Imogen.’
    Thalia took a seat behind Royston’s desk, and saw at once how everyone turned gratefully towards her, like obedient children waiting to be told what to do. Good. She took a quick mental inventory. Flabby-minded people like Rosa and Dilys and flabby-stomached people like Cousin Elspeth could be dealt with; that besotted fool John Shilling could be dealt with as well, and with far greater ease than Thalia had hoped possible. He had come with her to the study but he had taken a chair a little apart from them all; he was grey-faced with grief and his eyes were slightly unfocused. A faint aroma of brandy clung to him. Good again. He would be no