‘The victim is an artist’s model. I’ll send Fox down with the other people and your usual kit. Much obliged. Sorry to drag you back before Monday.’

‘That’s all right, sir.’

‘Splendid. I’ll expect your report. Nice to see you again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

Alleyn went back to the drawing-room.

‘Well?’ began his mother. She looked up at him, and in a moment was at his side. ‘What’s the matter, old man?’

‘Nothing, ma’am. It was the Yard. They want me to take a case near here. It’s at Tatler’s End House.’

‘But what is it?’

‘Murder, it seems.’

‘Roderick!’

‘No, no. I thought that, too, for a moment. It’s the model. I’ll have to go at once. May I have the car?’

‘Of course, darling.’ She pressed a bell-push, and when Clibborn came, said: ‘Mr Roderick’s overcoat at once, Clibborn, and tell French to bring the car round quickly.’ When Clibborn had gone she put her hand on Alleyn’s. ‘Please tell Miss Troy that if she would like to come to me—’

‘Yes, darling. Thank you. But I must see what it’s all about first. It’s a case.’

‘Well, you won’t include Agatha Troy among your suspects, I hope?’

‘If there’s a question of that,’ said Alleyn, ‘I’ll leave the service. Good night. Don’t sit up. I may be late.’

Clibborn came in with his overcoat.

‘Finish your sherry,’ ordered his mother. He drank it obediently. ‘And, Roderick, look in at my room, however late it is.’

He bowed, kissed her lightly, and went out to the car.

It was a cold evening with a hint of frost on the air. Alleyn dismissed the chauffeur and drove himself at breakneck speed towards Tatler’s End House. On the way, three vivid little pictures appeared, one after another, in his mind. The wharf at Suva. Agatha Troy, in her old smock and grey bags, staring out over the sea while the wind whipped the short hair back from her face. Agatha Troy saying goodbye at night on the edge of the St Lawrence.

The headlights shone on rhododendrons and tree-trunks, and then on a closed gate and the figure of a constable. A torch flashed on Alleyn’s face.

‘Excuse me, sir—’

‘All right. Chief Detective-Inspector Alleyn from the Yard.’

The man saluted.

‘They’re expecting you, sir.’

The gate swung open, and Alleyn slipped in his clutch. It was a long winding drive, and it seemed an age before he pulled up before a lighted door. A second constable met him and showed him into a pleasant hall where a large fire burned.

‘I’ll tell the superintendent you’ve arrived, sir,’ said the man, but as he spoke, a door on Alleyn’s left opened and a stout man with a scarlet face came out.

‘Hullo, hullo! This is very nice. Haven’t seen you for ages.’