The Sussex Murder. Ian Sansom

to do a lot of things, my dear,’ said Molly. ‘Do you know the final trio from Der Rosenkavalier?’

      ‘Not off the top of my head,’ said Miriam. ‘No.’

      ‘“Hab mir’s gelobt”,’ said Morley.

      ‘Indeed,’ said Molly. ‘In which the Marschallin gives up her young lover, Octavian, when she realises that he is in love with Sophie.’

      Molly closed her eyes for a moment and then quietly began to sketch out the melody with her – admittedly – extraordinary voice, a soft, clear, luminous soprano. Morley closed his eyes and hummed along.

      I thought for a moment that Miriam might actually be physically sick, but fortunately we had the Bedlington with us, who made his presence known at this point by attempting to climb up onto Molly’s lap, interrupting the impromptu recital.

      ‘Well, well, who is this little fellow?’ Molly said, scooping him up.

      ‘This is Pablo,’ I said.

      ‘Pablito, surely,’ said Molly, petting him like a baby.

      Miriam snorted derisively.

      ‘I met Picasso at a dance in Madrid some years ago. Did I ever tell you, Swanton?’

      ‘I don’t think so, my dear,’ said Morley.

      ‘Yes. I’d been performing – Teatro de la Zarzuela – and there had been a dinner in my honour and we all went dancing in this wonderful little taverna, and Picasso was there and he really was quite a … bull of a man.’

      ‘The minotaur of modern art,’ said Morley.

      ‘Exactly!’ said Molly. ‘The minotaur of modern art! How clever!’

      Miriam sighed so loudly it sounded like a rushing wind had entered the room: her exasperation, I could tell, was reaching the point of no return and great regret. Thank goodness, there came a knock at the door.

      ‘Enter!’ cried Molly, though almost before she had uttered the word the door had already opened and a rather ugly bald-headed man with bulgy eyes poked his head around.

      ‘This is Giacomo,’ said Molly. ‘He’s my manager.’

      ‘Good evening.’

      The Bedlington leapt down from Molly’s lap and snarled at Giacomo.

      ‘Is he yours, Sefton?’ asked Morley.

      ‘He’s mine, actually, Father.’

      ‘I see,’ said Morley, not entirely approvingly.

      ‘I might need to take him outside, actually,’ I said, having become keenly attuned to the dog’s toileting habits during our drive down from London.

      ‘Will there be anything else, madam?’ asked Giacomo, ignoring the dog, and indeed the rest of us.

      ‘Not tonight, thank you, no,’ said Molly, with which Giacomo disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared.

      ‘We’re staying at the Grand, Father, isn’t that right?’ said Miriam.

      ‘Yes,’ said Morley. ‘Perhaps I should come with you. Lots to plan for the next couple of days. We can take the dog, Sefton, if you’d be so kind as to ensure Molly gets back to her digs?’

      ‘Of course,’ I said.

      ‘We’ll take the Lagonda,’ said Miriam.

      ‘Do you have a driver, my dear?’ asked Morley.

      ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, I can fend for myself,’ said Molly, rising. ‘And I have Giacomo, of course.’ She bestowed triple cheek kisses all round. ‘Now, we all have a busy week ahead of us. I shall see you tomorrow, Swanton. And you too, Miriam.’

      ‘Hmm,’ said Miriam.

      And so Morley and Miriam departed, and I was suddenly left alone with Molly in her dressing room.