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‘Oh . . . er, no need, dear.’

‘I want to, especially since tonight has been a flop. You sit down, Irma. Let me carry these over.’

Their gaze met and held for a heartbeat, and Fleur could sense Irma’s indecision.

‘Right, well, this one’s your father’s,’ Irma said, pointing to the cup on the left.

‘All right,’ Fleur said and made a show of picking up the cups and saucers, her father’s coffee in her left hand. She waited for Irma to leave her side, then, making sure Irma saw, turned around carefully, balancing the drinks, arriving between her father and Irma. She watched Irma’s eyes widen as she realised Fleur’s left hand was now closest to her and the coffee she had intended for herself was now closest to Henry. Fleur watched with interest as something – what was it? Fear? – flashed in Irma’s eyes.

Yes, dear stepmother, I think you’re worried, Fleur thought.

She deliberately placed the coffee in her left hand in front of Irma, and gave the other to her father.

He took a sip and sighed before anything could be said. ‘Oh, that’s better, dear,’ he said, sounding vaguely delighted. ‘Excellent flavour. New beans?’

‘Er . . .’ Irma hesitated. ‘I think you may have my coffee, Henry, dear. I told Fleur yours was on the left.’

‘Oops.’ Fleur smiled, feigning innocence. ‘Doesn’t matter, does it?’ she queried. ‘You said you’d make Dad’s just like yours. It’s milky as you wanted. Drink up, Irma.’

‘It’s very nice, thank you,’ Henry remarked, taking another sip. He sighed again with pleasure.

Fleur stared at Irma and the hideous suspicion that had begun to claw at her seemed to take shape, telling her that a monster was seated before her. Should she believe it?

‘Drink up, Irma, before it goes cold,’ Fleur encouraged in a breezy voice that she’d had to find to cover the horror beginning to gather and clog in her throat.

‘Actually, I won’t. I do believe I’ve indulged too much this evening. That rich gravy and then the custard. It’s giving me indigestion, and I think one sip of coffee might send me to the bathroom.’

‘Really?’ Fleur said in a sympathetic tone. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You really shouldn’t waste expensive coffee.’

Irma pushed the cup and saucer away from her. ‘I know, but I just don’t feel terribly good. A glass of water is a better idea. And I might go upstairs and rest.’ She turned to Henry. ‘You don’t mind, dear, do you?’

‘Not at all,’ Henry replied. ‘I’m off to the pub to catch last orders.’

Fleur watched them stand up from the table to head in different directions. She felt her father to be too sickly to be going anywhere, but she sensed he wouldn’t stand for it if she tried to stop him. Irma did not look at Fleur again as she ascended the stairs, while her father kissed her goodnight and said he would see her later. Fleur barely registered the door closing or Nan coming in to clear the dishes, because her mind was trying to wrap itself around the notion that Irma was indeed poisoning her father. Fleur was now convinced that Irma had been lacing her father’s coffee with the rat killer, to poison him carefully, invisibly and with a ghastly patience so no one would ever imagine it was anything more than his deteriorating liver from alcohol. The witch!

It was all very well to suspect, Fleur berated herself privately, and even to become convinced, but how would she prove it? Irma could easily deny it and laugh at her, cite their brittle relationship as a reason for troublemaking, and suggest Fleur was looking for any excuse to cast aspersions on her character.

Nan interrupted her musings. ‘All done in here, I see.’

‘Thanks, Nan. Can I help?’

‘No, no, it’s quicker if I just go through my routines. Oh, by the way, I’ve found the source of that dreadful smell,’ she said, stacking the dishes from the table onto a tray.

Fleur couldn’t stand idle; she gathered up the tablecloth to shake it free of crumbs outdoors. ‘You have? Thank goodness. What was it?’ she asked, following Nan into the kitchen and heading for the back door. She quickly opened it and shook the tablecloth.

Nan had put down the tray she was carrying and arrived to help fold up the cloth. ‘You’ll never guess what it was.’

‘I can’t,’ Fleur replied. ‘It was disgusting. I was becoming quite anxious about it, worried that any visitors to the funeral parlour might notice.’

‘Well, they would of,’ Nan said and Fleur resisted correcting her.

‘So? Tell me.’

Nan took the folded cloth and grinned. ‘Some old oysters.’

‘What?’ Fleur managed to sound amused, though she had a creeping sense of dread.

The cook shook her head, looking smug. ‘Can you imagine? That terrible pong was from oysters gone off.’