‘Oh no, sir. Bert Bailey’s in his beauty sleep in the back of our car, and Mr Bathgate has gone off in his to her ladyship’s. Mr Bathgate asked me to tell you, sir, that he proposed to make the telephone wires burn while the going was good.’

‘I’d like to see him try. Fox, we’ll seal up this caravan and then we really will go home. Look here, you send Bailey back to London and stay the night with us. My mother will be delighted. I’ll lend you some pyjamas, and we’ll snatch a few hours’ sleep and start early in the morning. Do come.’

‘Well, sir, that’s very kind of you. I’d be very pleased.’

‘Splendid!’

Alleyn sealed the caravan door with tape, and then the door of the garage. He put the key in his pocket.

‘No little jaunts for them tomorrow,’ he said coolly. ‘Come along, Fox. Golly, it’s cold.’

They saw Bailey, arranged to meet him at the Yard in the morning, and drove back to Danes Lodge.

‘We’ll have a drink before we turn in,’ said Alleyn softly, when they were indoors. ‘In here.’

Fox tiptoed after him towards Lady Alleyn’s boudoir. At the door they paused and looked at each other. A low murmur of voices came from the room beyond.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Alleyn, and walked in.

A large fire crackled in the open fireplace. Nigel sat before it crosslegged on the hearthrug. Curled up in a wing-backed chair was Lady Alleyn. She wore a blue dressing-gown and a lace cap and her feet were tucked under her.

‘Ma’am!’ said Alleyn.

‘Hullo, darling! Mr Bathgate’s been telling me all about your case. It’s wonderfully interesting, and we have already solved it in three separate ways.’

She looked round the corner of her chair and saw Fox.

‘This is disgraceful,’ said Alleyn. ‘A scene of license and depravity. May I introduce Mr Fox, and will you give him a bed?’

‘Of course I will. This is perfectly delightful. How do you do, Mr Fox?’

Fox made his best bow and took the small, thin hand in his enormous fist.

‘How d’you do, my lady?’ he said gravely. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘Roderick, bring up some chairs, darling, and get yourselves drinks. Mr Bathgate is drinking whisky, and I am drinking port. It’s not a bit kind of me, Mr Fox. I have hoped so much that we might meet. Do you know, you look exactly as I have always thought you would look, and that is very flattering to me and to you. Roderick has told me so much about you. You’ve worked together on very many cases, haven’t you?’