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“On the subject of the library,” Professor Worth said, rising, “I heard that somewhere they’ve got an early edition of Die Vollständigkeit der Axiome des logischen Funktionenkalküls with some of Gödel’s original notes, and I’m very curious to have a look at it.” He glanced around. “Assuming we’re not doing the whole stay-together-so-we-don’t-all-get-murdered thing?”

“Shouldn’t think so, old boy,” said Sir Richard. “About to tootle off myself, to be honest. Might take a stroll in the grounds.”

Colonel Coleman stood up and stretched. “In that case, I might ask that Burgh fellow if he’ll crack open that gun cabinet for me.”

“What—why?” Hanna looked aghast.

“Because there’s one blighter out there with a gun already, and I’d rather have one of my own just in case.”

Hanna rolled her eyes. “Oh, good. Because that won’t cause things to rapidly escalate out of control.”

“Also,” added Liza, “I’m pretty sure the hotel is only allowed to let you use the guns for, you know, activities. I don’t think you can just sign one out for self-defence.”

The colonel shrugged. “Worth a try.”

The various members of the group started to go their separate ways, but when Liza and Hanna reached the stairs, Liza went straight past them, carrying on up the corridor towards the front of the hotel and the tower Malcom Ackroyd had fallen from.

With spousal insight, Hanna caught her shoulder. “No.”

“I just want to look around.”

“And what if she’s in? What if she’s up there feeling like shit because her husband fell to his death?”

“Then I’ll say hello and I’m sorry for your loss.”

Hanna wasn’t glaring exactly, but her expression was definitely on a spectrum that had glares in it. “And?”

“And maybe ask her some questions?” Liza’s voice ended the sentence an octave higher than it had begun it.

“No.” Hanna’s tone was sharp.

“But—”

Nor, it seemed, was she in a mood to be butted. “No. Fuck, Liza, you have never been one of these people.”

Knowing full well what Hanna meant, Liza folded her arms and said, “What people?”

“Funeral chasers. Grief vampires. Those ghoulish fucks who ring up parents whose kids aren’t even cold in the ground and start saying things like, ‘So, do you think they got the right guy?’”

“This is different. We’re here.”

“It is not different. There has been a tragic accident, and everybody is panicking.”

“It wasn’t an accident. He was pushed. The chef saw—” Turning around, Liza started walking quickly back towards the kitchens.

Hanna, trailing after, was still firing negatives. “No.”

“Come on, she’s not personally involved. She might be able to tell us something.”

“There is no us here.”

Liza knew she was talking about the investigation, but the words still hung in the air like really unwelcome snowflakes.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” There weren’t enough sighs in the world. And suddenly running down to the kitchens to ask a stranger where she’d been at one o’clock that morning seemed the height of self-indulgent futility. “Sorry, I’ve been—you’re right, we should go back to the room and wait for all this to be over.”

Hanna looked small. Of course, she always looked a bit small on account of her height, but she looked small in the emotional sense. “I’m not sure I want to just be sitting upstairs stewing. Come for a walk with me?”