‘I’m just going to have a look at the garage,’ said Alleyn. ‘I’ve got the key from a nail in the lobby. I won’t be long. Give me my case, Bailey. Bathgate—you drive on.’

He switched on his torch and followed the drive round the house to an old stables-yard. The four loose-boxes had been converted into garages, and his key fitted all of them. He found an Austin, and a smart supercharged sports car—‘Pilgrim’s,’ thought Alleyn—and in the last garage a small motor caravan. Alleyn muttered when he saw this. He examined the tyre-treads, measured the distance between the wheels and took the height from the ground to the rear doorstep. He opened the door and climbed in. He found a small lamp on a battery in the ceiling, and swtiched it on. It was not an elaborate interior, but it was well planned. There were two bunks, a folding table, a cupboard and plenty of lockers. He looked into the lockers and found painting gear and one or two canvases. He took one out. ‘Troy’s,’ he said. He began to look very closely at the board floor. On the doorstep he found two dark indentations. They were shiny and looked as though they had been made by small wheels carrying a heavy load. The door opened outwards. Its inner surface had been recently scored across. Alleyn looked through a lens at the scratches. The paint had frilled up a little and the marks were clean. The floor itself bore traces of the shiny tracks, but here they were much fainter. He looked at the petrol gauge and found it registered only two gallons. He returned to the floor and crawled over it with his torch. At last he came upon a few traces of a greenish-grey substance. These he scraped off delicately and put in a small tin. He went into the driver’s cabin, taking an insufflator with him, and tested the wheel. It showed no clear prints. On the floor of the cabin Alleyn found several Player’s cigarette-butts. These he collected and examined carefully. The ray from his torch showed him a tiny white object that had dropped into the gear-change slot. He fished it out with a pair of tweezers. It was the remains of yet another cigarette and had got jammed and stuck to the inside of the slot. A fragment of red paper was mixed with the flattened wad of tobacco strands. One of Troy’s, perhaps. An old one. He had returned to the door with his insufflator, when a deep voice said:

‘Have they remembered your hot-water bottle, sir, and what time would you wish to be called?’

‘Fox!’ said Alleyn, ‘I am sorry. Have I been very long?’