‘This is Batchelors Gardens,’ said Alleyn. ‘And there’s No. 4. You can put me down here. If I don’t come out in five minutes take Mr Fox to the Yard and Mr Bathgate to his office, will you, French? Goodbye, Bathgate. Meet you at the Yard somewhere round noon, Fox.’

He waved his hand and crossed the street to No. 4, a set of flats that only just escaped the appearance of a lodging-house. Alleyn inspected the row of yellowing cards inside the front door. Miss Bobbie O’Dawne’s room was up two flights. He passed the inevitable charwoman with her bucket of oil and soot, and her obscene grey wiper so like a drowned rat.

‘Good morning,’ said Alleyn, ‘is Miss O’Dawne at home, can you tell me?’

‘At ‘ome,’ said the charlady, viciously wringing the neck of the rat. “Er! She won’t be out of ‘er bed!’

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn and tapped at Miss O’Dawne’s door. He tapped three times, closely watched by the charlady, before a submerged voice called out: ‘All right.’ There were bumping noises, followed by the sound of bare feet on thin carpet. The voice, now much nearer, asked: ‘Who is it?’

‘May I speak to Miss O’Dawne?’ called Alleyn. ‘I’ve an important message for her.’

‘For me?’ said the voice in more refined accents. ‘Wait a moment, please.’

He waited while the charlady absently swilled the rat round and round in the oil and soot before slopping it over the top stair. The door opened a few inches and then widely enough to admit the passage of a mop of sulphur-coloured curls and a not unattractive face.

‘Oh,’ said the face, ‘pardon me, I’m afraid—’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you so early,’ said Alleyn, ‘but I would be most grateful if you could see me for a moment.’

‘I don’t want anything,’ said Miss O’Dawne dangerously.

‘And I’m not selling anything,’ smiled Alleyn.

‘Sorry, I’m sure, but you never know, these days, do you, with ‘varsity boys travelling in anything from vacuums to foundation garments.’

‘It’s about Sonia Gluck,’ said Alleyn.

‘Sonia? Are you a pal of hers? Why didn’t you say so at first? Half a tick, and I’ll get dressed. Pardon the stage-wait, but the lonely west wing’s closed on account of the ghost, and the rest of the castle’s a ruin.’

‘Don’t hurry,’ said Alleyn, ‘the morning’s before us.’

‘I’ll say! Tell yourself stories and be good!’

The door slammed. Alleyn lit a cigarette. The charlady descended three steps backwards with a toad-like posture.

‘Cold morning,’ she said suddenly.

‘Very cold,’ agreed Alleyn, noticing with a pang that her old hands were purple.

‘You a theatrical?’

‘No, no. Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid.’

‘Not a traveller neither?’

‘No—not even a traveller.’