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the combined mental opposition of them all.
    The aunts huddled together, sipping the hot, sweet tea that Mrs Scullion had brought, which was kind of her. The sprinkling of husbands had opted for large brandies, and Dilys had joined them.
    Nobody had any idea of going home. Some kind of decision had to be made, and it had to be made today. There was an unspoken feeling that probably Thalia would take charge; she was so strong-minded and clever, and of course she was accustomed to meetings and decisions because of all her charity work – she worked very hard for several organisations.
    Dilys, whose brandy had been a generous double, was moved to observe that the family had been along this road before, at least twice to everyone’s certain knowledge, which had the effect of reminding everyone who might conceivably have forgotten about Lucienne and Sybilla. Cousin Elspeth said Dr Shilling ought to be here instead of fawning on Eloise as usual, and where was Flora?
    â€˜Flora’s with Imogen, I think,’ said Dilys. ‘I don’t know where Thalia is – does anybody know?’
    Nobody did. Several people were secretly rather relieved at Thalia’s continuing absence, because nobody quite knew how to treat someone whose son’s head had somehow been taken from its coffin and placed on a serving dish. She would recover, of course; she was a very strong lady indeed, but she had to be allowed a little time to get over the shock.
    Everyone was still shocked, of course, but beneath that emotion was now running a thin line of curiosity about the unknown young man who had gone to Imogen’s side so swiftly. Dilys asked wistfully if he might be a boyfriend of Imogen’s they had not heard about, but Rosa said this was unlikely, because Royston would not have allowed any boyfriend within miles of the child. In any case, the young man had been nearly thirty from the look of him – far too old for a seventeen-year-old.
    Aunt Dilys, whose own youth had included one or two romantic episodes, was heard to murmur mutinously that age had nothing to do with it.
    Flora, entering the room in time to hear this last remark, agreed.
    Imogen lay on her bed and tried to push away the thick, clouding mists of the sedative administered by Dr Shilling; she must try to make sense of what had happened today.
    She thought she should have been warned when she first fetched the dish from the kitchen and found it cold to the touch, almost as if it had just come out of the fridge, or even the freezer. It should not have been cold at all; the ham had been baked with whole cloves and basted with brown sugar and orange juice and honey. She rather enjoyed cooking, and she had timed it all carefully so that it would be ready to serve at the lunch, along with bowls of salad and buttered rolls. The ham had been left in the half-oven while people were eating canapés and drinking sherry, so that it would stay warm but not actually cook any more. Edmund’s head, not cooking but keeping warm . . . Oh God, no!
    She had made a lemon soufflé as well, and Mrs Scullion, whose son worked in a fish restaurant in Chelsea, had prepared a whole salmon. Concentrating on preparing the food had stopped Imogen from thinking about Edmund and how he must look inside his coffin, and how the coffin was in the ground now. Burial, not cremation, Aunt Thalia had said. She had been unexpectedly insistent about it.
    If Edmund had been cremated today’s appalling incident could not have happened. Imogen frowned. Was there a clue there? Could they ask the undertakers who had been into the Chapel of Rest before the service? But could anyone – any of the family or friends – really have opened Edmund’s coffin and stolen part of his body? Imogen tried to visualise it and failed completely. Only I can’t think properly! she cried silently. When I’ve slept this wretched sedative off, then I’ll think. Then I’ll try to