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“Cheltenham.”
    “Miss Harrington?”
    “Yes. Who is that, please?” She sounded frail and a touch queru-lous. Charlotte’s heart sank.
    “My name’s Charlotte Ladram, Miss Harrington. We’ve never met, but—”
    “Charlotte Ladram? Oh, of course! I know who you are.” Her tone was warmer now. “Beatrix’s niece.”
    “Not her niece exactly but—”
    “Good as, I rather thought. Well, forgive me, Miss Ladram. May I call you Charlotte? Beatrix always refers to you as such.”
    “Of course. I—”
    “It’s a great pleasure to speak to you at last, I must say. To what do I—” She broke off abruptly, then said: “Is Beatrix all right?”
    Suddenly fearful that Lulu would guess before she could tell her, Charlotte blurted out: “I’m afraid she passed away yesterday.” Then she regretted her abruptness. “I’m sorry if it’s a shock. It was for all of 24

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    us.” But only silence followed. “Miss Harrington? Miss Harrington, are you still there?”
    “Yes.” She sounded calm and sombre now. “May I . . . That is, what happened . . . exactly?”
    She would have to know of course. There was no way of pretending Beatrix had slipped away peacefully. As she explained the circumstances, Charlotte sensed how brutal and unfair they must sound to one of Beatrix’s own age who also lived alone. But the circumstances could not be altered.
    When she had finished, there was another momentary silence.
    Then Lulu said simply: “I see.”
    “I’m really very sorry to have to break such news to you.”
    “Pray don’t apologize, my dear. It’s good of you to have called.”
    “Not at all. You were Beatrix’s oldest friend, after all.”
    “Was I?”
    “Of course you were. She always said so.”
    “That was good of her.”
    “Miss Harrington—”
    “Call me Lulu, please.”
    “Are you sure you’re all right? This must have come as a terrible shock.”
    “Not really.”
    “What?”
    “Forgive me. I mean simply that at our age—Beatrix’s and mine—death can never be regarded as a surprise.”
    “But this is different . . . This was not . . .”
    “Not natural. Quite so, my dear. The difference does not escape me, I assure you.”
    “Then how . . .” Charlotte stopped herself. The old lady was clearly wandering. It would be charitable to disregard whatever she said. “Will you wish to attend the funeral, Lulu? It’s to be held next Monday, the twenty-ninth. It’s a long way for you to come, of course, but I could offer you overnight accommodation if that would help.”
    “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. But . . . I will think about it, Charlotte. I will think about it and let you know.”
    “Of course. Of course. Do that. Now, if you’re certain you’re all right—”
    “Absolutely. Goodbye, Charlotte.”

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    25
    “Good—” The line went dead before she could finish. And left her staring at her own puzzled frown in the mirror above the telephone.
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    Fairfax.”
    “Good morning. Is that Mr Derek Fairfax?”
    “Speaking.”
    “My name’s Dredge, Mr Fairfax. Albion Dredge. I’m a solicitor, representing your brother, Mr Colin Fairfax.”
    Derek felt the blood rush to his face. It had happened. What he had dreaded ever since Colin’s arrival in Tunbridge Wells. A reversion to type, some might say. A stroke of bad luck, Colin would undoubtedly protest. A problem, unquestionably, that Derek did not need.
    “Representing him in what, Mr Dredge?”
    “I regret to have to tell you, Mr Fairfax, that your brother was arrested yesterday by the Sussex Police and subsequently charged with serious criminal offences.”
    “What were the offences?”
    “Handling stolen goods. Conspiracy to burgle. Aiding and abetting murder.”
    It was worse than he had imagined. Far worse. “Murder, you say?”
    “An elderly spinster was found battered to death at her cottage in Rye on Sunday afternoon. You may have seen a