‘That was rather slow of you, darling. Too gay and charming for words. Well, Mr Fox, suppose this young Malmsley deliberately stayed behind on Friday, deliberately gave Garcia opium, deliberately egged him on to set the trap, and then came away, hoping that Garcia would do it. How about that?’

‘You put it very neatly indeed, my lady,’ said Fox, looking at Lady Alleyn with serious approval. ‘May I relieve you of your glass?’

‘Thank you. Well now, Roderick, what about Basil Pilgrim?’

‘What about him, little mum?’

‘Of course, he might easily be unbalanced. Robert Pilgrim is as mad as a March Hare, and I think that unfortunate wife of his was a cousin of sorts, so there you are. And she simply set to work and had baby after baby after baby—all gels, poor thing—until she had this boy Basil, and died of exhaustion. Not a very good beginning. And Robert turned into a Primitive Methodist in the middle of it all, and used to ask everybody the most ill-judged questions about their private lives. I remember quite well when this boy was born, Roderick, your father said Robert’s methods had been too primitive for Alberta. Her name was Alberta. Do you think the boy could have had anything to do with this affair?’

‘Has Bathgate told you all about our interview with Pilgrim?’ asked Alleyn.

‘He was in the middle of it when you came in. What sort of boy has he grown into? Not like Robert, I hope?’

‘Not very. He’s most violently in love.’

‘With this Seacliff gel. What kind of gel is she, Roderick? Modern and hard? Mr Bathgate says beautiful.’

‘She’s very good-looking and bit of a huntress.’

‘At all murderish, do you imagine?’

‘Darling, I don’t know. Do you realize you ought to be in bed, and that you’ve led Bathgate into the father and mother of a row for talking out of school?’

‘Mr Bathgate knows I’m as safe as the Roman Wall, don’t you, Mr Bathgate?’

‘I’m so much in love with you, Lady Alleyn,’ said Nigel, ‘that I wouldn’t care if you were the soul of indiscretion. I should still open my heart to you.’

‘There now, Roderick,’ said his mother, ‘isn’t that charming? I think perhaps I will go to bed.’

Ten minutes later, Alleyn tapped on his mother’s door. The familiar, high-pitched voiced called: ‘Come in, darling,’ and he found Lady Alleyn sitting bolt upright in her bed, a book in her hand, and spec tacles on her nose.

‘You look like a miniature owl,’ said Alleyn, and sat on the bed.

‘Are they tucked away comfortably?’

‘They are. Both besotted with adoration of you.’

‘Darling! Did I show off?’

‘Shamelessly.’

‘I do like your Mr Fox, Roderick.’

‘Isn’t he splendid? Mum—’

‘Yes, darling?’

‘This is a tricky business.’

‘I suppose so. How is she?’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t be affected, Roderick.’