There was a pause in the testimony during which the witness was overcome with grief, and the coroner asked for a glass of water to be brought.

When Antrobus was able to continue he said that as soon as he saw his uncle he knew that the case was hopeless. He had left the study and closed the door behind him, returned to the parlour, quickly ordered that everyone should remain there and sent a servant to fetch a doctor. He then stayed with the other guests until the doctor arrived.

Shown a pistol he agreed that it was the property of his uncle, who usually kept it unloaded and locked in a cabinet in his study, together with a supply of ammunition. His uncle kept it as a sporting item although he rarely used it. He himself had never handled the pistol, in fact he was sure that neither he nor anyone else in the house would have had the slightest idea of how to load and fire it. He had given the matter careful thought and as far as he was aware his uncle must have been alone in the study when the shot was fired as every other person in the house was accounted for.

The question of Mr Henderson’s state of mind was of paramount importance. He was an unmarried man of independent means and generally of a cheerful disposition and good health. There had been allegations that he was prone to melancholy but this his nephew firmly refuted. Henderson had sometimes suffered from the migraine, which had required him to retreat to a darkened room – there was a chaise longue in the rear parlour where he liked to recline – but after he had rested he was as well as any other man.

The coroner reviewed the evidence. He saw no reason why Mr Henderson should have taken his own life. It appeared that he had himself unlocked the study door, taken the gun out of its case and polished it, perhaps in order to show it to his guests as it was of unusual design. Although he usually stored the gun unloaded it was possible that he might have mistakenly put it away previously with a bullet still in it, and while being polished, it had accidentally discharged, killing him. The presence of the cloth supported that theory, as did the fact that the study door was found open. In his experience men who retired to their rooms with the intention of ending their lives always did so behind a firmly closed door.

The jury had no difficulty in returning a verdict that Charles Henderson’s death had been an accident.

Frances concurred, but she could see why Edwin Antrobus felt that his inheritance had been tainted by blood. Whether the incident and his grief had had anything to do with his disappearance fourteen years later seemed unlikely.

It was always a pleasure for Frances to entertain her uncle Cornelius Martin to tea. The elder brother of her absent mother, Rosetta, his kindness to Frances when she was a child was the best and truest paternal guidance she had ever known. Frances had grown up under the cold and unappreciative eye of her father William, whose energies were largely devoted to the upbringing and education of her brother Frederick, and the firm, practical hand of William’s sister, Maude. Valued only for her work in the home and the shop, and given no more schooling than was necessary for those duties, her enquiring mind had sought out further knowledge in her brother’s books and her father’s library, and it had been fed with stimulating experiences when Cornelius had taken Frederick and herself on outings.

Her uncle was a lonely man, still missing his wife after twelve years of widowerhood. On the death of her father Frances had found that unwise investments had left her almost penniless, and the business had been sold to pay debts. Cornelius had generously offered her a home and a simple but secure life, but the celebrity that had descended upon her when she solved her first murder case had brought unexpected commissions, and she had taken the adventurous step of becoming a private detective. Cornelius had not been offended, simply concerned, and he often called on her to reassure himself that she had not been murdered or, worse still, become a depraved woman.

Frances had long forgiven her uncle for keeping secret the fact that her mother had not, as she had always been told, died when she was three but had deserted her father for another man. She had never been able to discover the identity of that man, or whether her mother still lived, mainly because she had made no determined attempt to do so, from fear that knowing the answers might be worse than ignorance. Sometimes it required a very conscious and deliberate effort on her part not to look for her mother. Such was her extreme restraint in this area that she had done no more than painstakingly scour the registers held in Somerset House for any record of her mother’s death or even a bigamous marriage, but she had found nothing. Although she tried to put it from her mind, the mystery still gnawed at her, all the more so because she had discovered that she had a younger brother living, the son of her mother and her unknown lover, the lover who might well be her own natural father. The only clue she held was a letter of her mother’s referring to the man as ‘V’.

Recently, Frances had re-examined her parents’ marriage certificate and seen that while one of the witnesses was her aunt Maude, the other was called Louise Salter, a name with which she was unfamiliar. The Bayswater Directory had no record of any householder of that surname. Frances had no wish either to call upon her aunt Maude or invite her to her home, which would have resulted in a fierce lecture on her inappropriate way of life and an unwanted revival of memories of childhood neglect. A far pleasanter prospect was to speak to her uncle.

Sarah set about preparing a suitable tea. Her powerful arms were able to work miracles of lightness in the kitchen; indeed Professor Pounder had commented recently that her gifts of pastry and puddings had required him to spend additional hours in the gymnasium in order to maintain his correct bodily proportions. Cornelius was not a great trencherman but, like Frances, he enjoyed the occasional treat, and in addition to a plate of thinly cut bread and butter Sarah had made pound cake, scones, gingerbread and fruit tart.

On his arrival, Cornelius made the usual considerate enquiries after Frances’ health, and she reassured him that she was very well indeed, adding the answers to his unspoken questions that she was settled and content in her new life. Sarah poured tea from the extra large pot, the one that was only used for visitors or when Frances needed an especially plentiful supply to consume during her deliberations.

Cornelius was in his early fifties, and while always neatly attired, he seemed to be living in the world of fashion that had existed when his wife had been alive. He did his best, but a loving spouse or a dutiful manservant would have seen him more freshly turned out. He had regretted Frances’ decision not to accept his offer of accommodation, and she felt sure that while he claimed to be happy in his own company, attended only by an elderly housekeeper whose main virtues were not in the field of conversation, he was actually very lonely. He sipped his tea, glanced from Frances to Sarah and back again, and gave a dejected little sigh but did not elaborate on his thoughts.

‘I was wondering,’ said Frances lightly, once the first round of eatables had been distributed, ‘if you know or once knew a lady by the name of Louise Salter.’

Cornelius paused in the middle of appreciating a slice of fruit tart. Frances watched him carefully, but he did not seem to be disturbed by the question. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘That is a name I have not heard in a long while. It sounds familiar but I am not sure I can place it.’