IT WAS SEVERAL HOURS later. Rafferty had got Freddie settled in a small bedroom in the main house, transferring enough of his stuff for a brief stay. He had got rather a frosty reception from the Egerton family. Whether or not he was guilty of his wife’s murder, they seemed to blame him for it. Blame him, too, for the fact that they’d have to get their own breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner until they organised a new housekeeper. After all those years, was that all Dahlia Sullivan was to them? A convenience? No wonder she’d wanted to retire.
That reminded him—he had transferred Freddie Sullivan to one of the interview rooms from his temporary lodgings at the Egertons’ home. He had to question him, though he felt a certain reluctance to do so. If the man hadn’t killed his wife; and he felt p
