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It sounded implausible to Liza, but Reverend Lincoln just shrugged. “You might be surprised. I’ve seen all kinds of strange things in my parish. And there are plenty of middle-aged criminals in the world.”

“So … what?” Liza tried to lay this theory out logically. “Mr B hires two people to come up here and … do some crimes for some reason? Possibly to harass an old rich lady. Then one of them kills the other but still goes on harassing the old rich lady on her own time?”

The vicar was still wearing a mantle of endless patience. “You say that as if exploiting old rich ladies wasn’t something criminals did.”

He had a point. John George Haigh the Acid Bath Murderer had killed almost entirely for profit, and his victims had mostly been wealthy older people. “That doesn’t explain why she’d shove her husband off a balcony first.”

“And you say that”—he gave her a dry smile—”as if professional killers never fall out with each other.”

At this, Hanna could barely contain her laughter. “You think the Ackroyds were professional killers?”

“I think professional killers don’t always look the way you think they will.” Reverend Lincoln’s tone was grave. “That’s part of what makes them good at their job.”

She should have let that one go. But professional pride made Liza give a sceptical erm. “Is it?” she asked. “Is it actually?”

Reverend Lincoln stared at her quizzically. “You don’t think so?”

“Well, I think if you actually look at real professional killers, they’re mostly people who look like professional killers. Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, Bugsy Siegel, Frankie Fraser. None of them looked like people you’d want to mess with.”

“Maybe I’m letting my imagination run away with me,” the reverend suggested. “But be careful. Somebody out here is a double murderer and it’s probably Mrs Ackroyd.”

Hanna patted the vicar cheerfully on the back. “Thanks, you’re really making us feel safe and supported.”

“I can come with you if you like.”

On the one hand, Liza thought, there was strength in numbers. On the other hand, it seemed a bit yicky to need a man to come along for protection. And on two more hands, that man might have been a murderer himself, even if he was off the hook for Belloc; and Vivien Ackroyd would probably be more dangerous if she felt cornered. “We’re good.”

They parted from Reverend Lincoln and continued to the tower alone. It was accessible only from the first floor, the second floor curving around it with no way in. The Ackroyds’ room was at the top of a long spiral staircase and had a sort of penthousey quality, partly because it was high up, and partly because there was an inherent swankiness to a room in a castle tower.

Feeling a sudden rush of apprehension that put her stomach in, if not a knot, then at least a bend, Liza hesitated.

“It’s okay,” Hanna whispered, “we’ve got this.”

Liza knocked.

“Is that you, James?” asked a voice from within.

“No.” There didn’t seem much point in beating around the bush. “It’s Liza and Hanna. We’ve … we’ve come to say we’re sorry.”

“And you aren’t worried that I’ll murder you?” snapped Vivien Ackroyd through the door. “You seem to think I’ve murdered two people already.”

The awkward thing was that, actually, Liza was a little bit worried about that. And while she’d had come upstairs to apologise for the way she’d expressed that belief, she didn’t think it was an unreasonable one to hold.

“I …” She could have lied and said that she didn’t, but it would have been transparent and not even an especially helpful deception. “Can you blame me?” she tried.

“Yes. Yes, I bloody well can.”

And actually, Liza couldn’t blame her. If she was innocent, then this was fucking awful. If she was guilty it was awful and scary because chances were, she was definitely going to jail after this was all over. “Okay,” she said in her most conciliatory tone—and given how many arguments she and Hanna had got into over the last year or so, her conciliatory tone had got pretty fucking good. “That’s fair. You’re right that I lost sight of the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing. And I shouldn’t have treated you like a killer.”

The door opened a crack, and Liza betrayed her own not-treating-Vivien-like-a-killer plans by immediately stepping aside in case a gun came out. The crack widened a little, and Viven Ackroyd’s face appeared in the gap. “That’s very kind of you,” she said with about as much sincerity as could be expected from a woman you’d both accused of killing her husband and then told that you were right to accuse her of killing her husband. “Will there be anything else?”

The part of Liza that thought investigating a murder seemed like a much better idea than sitting around wondering if you’d get killed before or after your marriage collapsed was really, really tempted to try and find an excuse to get inside the room. But the part of her that thought acting on it would only accelerate the collapse of her marriage decided not to. “No,” she said. “It’s okay. I …” Then a tiny voice in the back of her head said, “You know what, fuck it.” “Actually, is there something going on with you and Lady Tabith—?”

The door slammed in her face.

“Do we take that as a no,” asked Hanna, “or a definite yes?”

Either way, they had to take it as a “go away.” So they slunk back to their room, having entirely failed to make things better with a woman neither of them was entirely certain they wanted to make things better with.