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“I haven’t.” That was an obvious enough lie that Hanna winced. “Okay, I have sometimes found it a little … a little difficult. It was weird to come home one day and find my wife poring over old police reports and pictures of bloody crime scenes.”

“Weird?”

“Unexpected.”

“I’ve always been into this stuff, for as long as you’ve known me.” There was nothing quite like learning after a decade that your spouse was surprised by a significant element of your personality.

And to her credit, Hanna seemed to notice that this was a nothing-quite-like situation. “I know. Except suddenly having it be a major part of our life was jarring. And now it’s suddenly become an even more major part of our life.”

“I’m hoping this is temporary.” Liza made an expansive gesture that failed to encompass the unusualness of their situation. “Two people have died—”

“I know two people have died. That’s what I mean.”

Liza looked up quizzically. “What do you mean, ‘that’s what you mean’?”

“Two people have died; one of them, assuming he wasn’t quite the fraud he seemed to be, an actual professional detective. You deciding to prod all of this with a stick makes me really uncomfortable.”

“I’m not prodding. I’m … I’m trying to work out what’s going on.”

Hanna crawled across the bed, the better to show Liza her serious face. “The last person who tried to work out what was going on wound up dead on the floor with you photographing his boots. I do not want to have to photograph your boots.”

“Photograph my boots?”

“Sorry, was that too euphemistic? I don’t want you to die. The thought of you dying scares me.” Hanna scooted right the way to the edge of the bed and sat with her legs dangling over the side. “It scares me so fucking much.”

Accepting that her notes would survive to confuse her another day, Liza shuffled sideways and sat at her wife’s feet. “I mean, I probably won’t?”

“But if you did there’d be nothing I could do. You’d be dead, and that would be it.”

Liza began gently massaging Hanna’s calves, which calmed her a little, but only a little. “You might have to accept that there are some things you can’t fix.”

“Is that a dig about this weekend?”

“Well,”—leaning forward, Liza pressed a kiss to Hanna’s knee—”it has got us trapped in a castle with two dead bodies and a killer on the loose, so it hasn’t been your best plan.”

Hanna kicked at her, softly but in a way that signalled genuine displeasure. “You realise that’s a big part of why I’m not okay with this?”

“Because it’s ruined our holiday?”

“Because”—Hanna reached down with an oddly sincere tenderness—”the idea of something happening to you frightens me. The idea of something happening to you because of something I’ve done fucking kills me.”

Liza didn’t want to say, “Now you’re being silly,” but she did think it quite loudly. Getting up, she sat herself on the bed next to Hanna and put her arm around her. “Okay, then since you, y’know, married me, you might need to reel some of that in a bit. Because in case you haven’t noticed, I can be a handful.”

“I’ve mostly managed.”

“I’m serious.” A hug turned into a squeeze. “You can’t keep freaking out every time I do something that might be new or dangerous.”

“You walked into a shed that might have had an armed murderer in it.”

Okay, that had been a bit irresponsible. “And I was fine. And somebody had to because especially with Belloc dead, it really is just us now. And I don’t trust the other guests an inch.”

“Not even the sultry blonde one?”

“Especially not the sultry blonde one.” Liza paused. That was mostly true, but this seemed like a be-honest-with-your-wife moment. “Although I don’t think she was lying about the footman. And she might be right about the vicar.”

Until two seconds ago, Hanna had been relaxing, albeit slightly. “Hold on, what about the vicar?”

Liza gave an apologetic grimace. “She said he wasn’t who he seems.”