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‘Yes, of course.’

It was the Alberton Hotel. ‘Is Tom all right?’ Fleur asked, suddenly anxious that the publican was calling her and not the other way around.

‘Sorry, love. I don’t mean to scare you. When I last saw him, the lad was pretty much the same as you left him, perhaps moving a little easier. My wife says he should still be in hospital but I think he’s doing well.’

Hearing about Tom should have cheered her but it did the opposite, as if hearing the publican’s voice had pricked the tight skin around her emotions that she’d been managing to hold in check, like a balloon inflated to its fullest.

‘How can I help? Does he need something?’

‘Er, well now, that’s why I’m calling. He’s gone, love. He said to let you know if you called, but my wife insisted I telephone you.’

‘Gone? What do you mean?’

‘He packed whatever he had and left a few hours ago. He’s left an envelope for you.’

‘No, Tom can’t have gone. We’re . . .’ Fleur didn’t know what to say. We’re lovers, we’re in love, we’re engaged? She chose to say no more.

‘He has, I’m afraid.’

‘Did he say to where?’

‘He didn’t. Shall I have the letter sent over?’

‘Thank you. I’d pick it up, but my father died today.’

‘Oh, Miss Appleby, I’m very sad to hear that. My apologies for interrupting you.’

She murmured that it was not a problem and, in a blur, put the receiver down, unsure if she’d muttered a polite farewell but uncharacteristically not caring in the moment.

Tom was gone? How wrong that sounded. It was suddenly too much to bear. Fleur leant against the wall and felt herself deflating as though the balloon she’d imagined had been untied, slowly letting out the air, and tears welled.

‘Tom . . .’ was all she could say in a small, wavering voice.

‘Miss Appleby?’ It was Bowers, helping her back to her feet from where she’d slid down to the ground. She had never been a dramatic person and could barely believe it was her now being hauled back upright. He looked concerned. ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I’m . . . I’m fine, thank you. Erm . . . just a bit of bad news.’

‘More bad news?’

‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, it’s not happy news but it doesn’t matter right now,’ Fleur lied. ‘Only my father’s passing matters.’ She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe away her tears before returning to the sitting room, where Irma and Nan waited with Inspector Green. Bowers followed her in.

Green spoke first. ‘Miss Appleby? Is there anything else you’d like to add?’

‘Only to reiterate that I want a post-mortem carried out on my father.’

‘Mrs Appleby?’

‘Go ahead, I have nothing to fear. Henry died of alcoholism, and I think the accidental seafood poisoning just made an already weakened body and shot liver worse.’

Green continued. ‘And the alleged contaminated coffee you spoke of, Miss Appleby? Is that available?’

It was Nan who shook her head. ‘The coffee was thrown away.’

‘Why?’ Inspector Green asked.

‘Er . . .’ Her eyes flicked between her employer and Fleur.

‘Speak honestly,’ Green urged.