CECILY BARBER WAS SOMETHING of a Grande Dame. She was tall and statuesque, with lots of upswept silver hair. She must have looked after herself, because although she was a peer in age to Ellen Everett, her skin looked soft and with few wrinkles, unlike the former’s, which had been crevassed with lines. Her house was in a similar vein: tall and stately-looking, with four stories and glossy white satin curtains at the many windows.
Ms Barber invited them up to her first floor drawing-room and asked them to sit down. Rafferty, thirsty after their walk, waited for her to offer tea. But no such offer came. Disgruntled, he subsided on to the sofa.
‘I heard about Sophia’s murder. Quite dreadful. How are you getting on with catching the person who did it?’
Rafferty told her that inquiries were
