The footman who answered the front door bell was well enough known to her. “Yes, it’s me again, William,” she said. “Is the doctor at home?”

“He came in about an hour ago, miss.”

“I want to see him. It’s urgent.”

“The family’s in the library, miss. I’ll ascertain…”

“Don’t bother,” said Nurse Kettle. “Or, yes. Ascertain if you like, but I’ll be hard on your heels. Ask him if he’ll come out here and speak to me.”

He looked dubiously at her, but something in her face must have impressed him. He crossed the great hall and opened the library door. He left it open and Nurse Kettle heard him say, “Miss Kettle to see Dr. Lacklander, my lady.”

“Me?” said Mark’s voice. “O Lord! All right, I’ll come.”

“Bring her in here,” Lady Lacklander’s voice commanded. “Talk to her in here, Mark. I want to see Kettle.” Hearing this, Nurse Kettle, without waiting to be summoned, walked quickly into the library. The three Lacklanders had turned in their chairs. George and Mark got up. Mark looked sharply at her and came quickly towards her. Lady Lacklander said, “Kettle! What’s happened to you!”

Nurse Kettle said, “Good evening, Lady Lacklander. Good evening, Sir George.” She put her hands behind her back and looked full at Mark. “May I speak to you, sir?” she said. “There’s been an accident.”

“All right, Nurse,” Mark said. “To whom?”

“To Colonel Cartarette, sir.”

The expression of enquiry seemed to freeze on their faces. It was as if they retired behind newly assumed masks.

“What sort of accident?” Mark said.

He stood behind Nurse Kettle and his grandmother and father. She shaped the word “killed” with her lips and tongue.

“Come out here,” he muttered and took her by the arm.

“Not at all,” his grandmother said. She heaved herself out of her chair and bore down upon them. “Not at all, Mark. What has happened to Maurice Cartarette? Don’t keep things from me; I am probably in better trim to meet an emergency than anyone else in this house. What has happened to Maurice?”

Mark, still holding Nurse Kettle by the arm, said, “Very well, Gar. Nurse Kettle will tell us what has happened.”

“Let’s have it, then. And in case it’s as bad as you look, Kettle, I suggest we all sit down. What did you say, George?”

Her son had made an indeterminate noise. He now said galvanically, “Yes, of course, Mama, by all means.”

Mark pushed a chair forward for Nurse Kettle, and she took it thankfully. Her knees, she discovered, were wobbling.

“Now, then, out with it,” said Lady Lacklander. “He’s dead, isn’t he, Kettle?”

“Yes, Lady Lacklander.”

“Where?” Sir George demanded. Nurse Kettle told him.

“When,” Lady Lacklander said, “did you discover him?”

“I’ve come straight up here, Lady Lacklander.”

“But why here, Kettle? Why not to Uplands?”

“I must break it to Kitty,” said Sir George.

“I must go to Rose,” said Mark simultaneously.

“Kettle,” said Lady Lacklander, “you used the word accident. What accident?”

“He has been murdered, Lady Lacklander,” said Nurse Kettle.

The thought that crossed her mind after she had made this announcement was that the three Lacklanders were, in their several generations, superficially very much alike but that whereas in Lady Lacklander and Mark the distance between the eyes and the width of mouth suggested a certain generosity, in Sir George they seemed merely to denote ’the naïve. Sir George’s jaw had dropped, and handsome though he undoubtedly was, he gaped unhandsomely. As none of them spoke, she added, “So I thought I’d better report to you, sir.”

“Do you mean,” Sir George said loudly, “that he’s lying there in my bottom meadow, murdered?”

“Yes, Sir George,” Nurse Kettle said, “I do.”

“How?” Mark said.

“Injuries to the head.”

“You made quite sure, of course?”

“Quite sure.”

Mark looked at his father. “We must ring the Chief Constable,” he said. “Would you do that, Father? I’ll go down with Nurse Kettle. One of us had better stay there till the police come. If you can’t get the C.C., would you ring Sergeant Oliphant at Chyning?”

Sir George’s hand went to his moustache. “I think,” he said, “you may take it, Mark, that I understand my responsibilities.”

Lady Lacklander said, “Don’t be an ass, George. The boy’s quite right,” and her son, scarlet in the face, went off to the telephone. “Now,” Lady Lacklander continued, “what are we going to do about Rose and that wife of his?”

“Gar…” Mark began, but his grandmother raised a fat glittering hand.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “No doubt you want to break it to Rose, Mark, but in my opinion you will do better to let me see both of them first. I shall stay there until you appear. Order the car.”

Mark rang the bell. “And you needn’t wait,” she added. “Take Miss Kettle with you.” It was characteristic of Lady Lacklander that she restricted her use of the more peremptory form of address to the second person. She now used it. “Kettle,” she said, “we’re grateful to you and mustn’t impose. Would you rather come with me or go back with my grandson? Which is best, do you think?”

“I’ll go with the doctor, thank you, Lady Lacklander. I suppose,” Nurse Kettle added composedly, “that as I found the body, I’ll be required to make a statement.”

She had moved with Mark to the door when Lady Lacklander’s voice checked her.

“And I suppose,” the elderly voice said, “that as I may have been the last person to speak to him, I shall be required to make one, too.”

In the drawing-room at Hammer there was an incongruous company assembled. Kitty Cartarette, Mark Lacklander and Nurse Kettle waited there while Lady Lacklander sat with Rose in the Colonel’s study. She had arrived first at Hammer, having been driven round in her great car while Mark and Nurse Kettle waited in the valley and George rang up the police station at Chyning. George had remembered he was a Justice of the Peace and was believed to be in telephonic conference with his brethren of the bench.

So it had fallen to Lady Lacklander to break the news to Kitty, whom she had found, wearing her black-velvet tights and flame-coloured top, in the drawing-room. Lady Lacklander in the course of a long life spent in many embassies had encountered every kind of eccentricity in female attire and was pretty well informed as to the predatory tactics of women whom, in the Far East, she had been wont to describe as “light cruisers.” She had made up her mind about Kitty Cartarette but had seemed to be prepared to concede her certain qualities if she showed any signs of possessing them.

She had said, “My dear, I’m the bearer of bad tidings,” and noticing that Kitty at once looked very frightened, had remarked to herself, “She thinks I mean to tackle her about George.”

“Are you?” Kitty had said. “What sort of tidings, please?”

“About Maurice.” Lady Lacklander had waited for a moment, added, “I’m afraid it’s the worst kind of news,” and had then told her. Kitty stared at her “Dead?” she said. “Maurice dead? I don’t believe you. How can he be dead? He’s been fishing down below there and I daresay he’s looked in at the pub.” Her hands with their long painted nails began to tremble. “How can he be dead?” she repeated.

Lady Lacklander became more specific, and presently Kitty broke into a harsh strangulated sobbing, twisting her fingers together and turning her head aside. She walked about the room, still, Lady Lacklander noticed, swaying her hips. Presently she fetched up by a grog tray on a small table and shakily poured herself a drink.

“That’s a sensible idea,” Lady Lacklander said as the neck of the decanter chattered against the glass. Kitty-awkwardly offered her a drink, which she declined with perfect equanimity. “Her manner,” she thought to herself, “is really too dreadful. What shall I do if George marries her?”