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of armor?”
    “Yes. . .”
    “They would have to.” Hester looked from one to the other of them. “And if he was dead it wouldn't cause him any distress. It is only what we think . . .”
    Edith pulled a face, but said nothing more, curling her legs up a little higher.
    “It's rather absurd, isn't it?” Damaris said very quietly. “A cavalry general who fought all over the place being killed eventually by falling over the stairs onto a halberd held by an empty suit of armor. Poor Thaddeus—he never had any sense of humor. I doubt he would have seen the funny side of it.”
    “I'm sure he wouldn't.” Edith's voice broke for a moment, and she took a deep breath. “And neither would Papa. I wouldn't mention it again, if I were you.”
    “For heaven's sake!” Damaris snapped. “I'm not a complete fool. Of course I won't. But if I don't laugh I think I shall not be able to stop crying. Death is often absurd. People are absurd. I am!” She sat up properly and swiveled around straight in the seat, facing Hester.
    “Someone murdered Thaddeus, and it had to be one of us who were there that evening. That's the awful thing about it all. The police say he couldn't have fallen onto the point of the halberd like that. It would never have penetrated his body—it would just have gone over. He could have broken his neck, or his back, and died. But that was not what happened. He didn't break any bones in the fall. He did knock his head, and almost certainly concuss himself, but it was the halberd through the chest that killed him—and that was driven in after he was lying on the ground.”
    She shivered. “Which is pretty horrible—and has not the remotest sort of humor about any part of it. Isn't it silly how we have this quite offensive desire to laugh at all the worst and most tragic things? The police have already been around asking all sorts of questions. It was dreadful—sort of unreal, like being inside a magic lantern show, except that of course they don't have stories like that.”
    “And they haven't come to any conclusions?” Hester went on relentlessly, but how else could she be of any help? They did not need pity; anyone could give them that.
    “No.” Damaris looked grim. “It seems several of us would have had the opportunity, and both Sabella and Alex had obviously quarreled with him recently. Others might have. I don't know.” Then suddenly she stood up and smiled with forced gaiety.
    “Let us go in to tea. Mama will be angry if we are late, and that would spoil it all.”
    Hester obeyed willingly. Apart from the fact that she thought they had exhausted the subject of the dinner party, at least for the time being, she was most interested in meeting Edith's parents, and indeed she was also ready for tea.
    Edith uncurled herself, straightening her skirts, and followed them downstairs, through the big hall and into the main withdrawing room, where tea was to be served. It was a magnificent room. Hester had only a moment in which to appreciate it, since her interest, as well as her manners, required she give her attention to the occupants. She saw brocaded walls with gilt-framed pictures, an ornate ceiling, exquisitely draped curtains in claret-colored velvet with gold sashes, and a darker patterned carpet. She caught sight of two tall bronzes in highly ornate Renaissance style, and had a dim idea of terra-cotta ornaments near the mantel.
    Colonel Randolph Carlyon was sitting totally relaxed, almost like a man asleep, in one of the great armchairs. He was a big man gone slack with age, his ruddy-skinned face partially concealed by white mustache and side whiskers, his pale blue eyes tired. He made an attempt to stand as they came in, but the gesture died before he was on his feet, a half bow sufficing to satisfy etiquette.
    Felicia Carlyon was as different as was imaginable. She was perhaps ten years younger than her husband, no more than her mid-sixties, and although her face showed a certain strain, a