Davyd looked around the living room. "Now, how's that game looking?"

Dessard just returned from his interview with the Constable. He looked cheerful at the mention of cards. "Merry Christmas!" he said again, to those he had missed at breakfast. "I'm in for a game. Fancy bridge? Or rummy?"

Reginald Staughton, who had followed the Major into the Constable's office, now emerged. Although his tale of the movements of everyone had tallied exactly, and although he pointed out that not knowing his hosts meant he was unlikely to know who their enemies were, he had nevertheless faced some hard questioning over his own position, until he had finally snapped.

"Look - I don't see why I would have killed Emerson. Yes, I might have inherited the Hall if my Uncle had died without heirs and in possession of the estate. But he had sold it ... and I never really expected to get it - I assumed, like everyone else, that Symon would ... or failing him, his sister. And, quite frankly, as the title is the only thing I am likely to come by, you could day I would have more of an interest in the death of Symon Staughton than of Wallace Emerson or Anja Ericsson."

He was still simmering as he walked back into the living room. The card game was in full flow and he stood for a moment watching it. Then suddenly he froze, and his gaze hardened ... on one pair of hands shuffling cards with easy skill ...

Dessard looked up from the card-table. "Staughton, you want in?" He ask