Alleyn slid his long hands under the rigid body and turned it on its side. The patches of sunburn showed clearly on the back. About three inches to the left of the spine was a dark puncture. It looked very small and neat in spite of the traces of blood that surrounded it.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘As you say. We had better have a photograph of this. Bailey, you go over the body for prints. You’d better tackle the drape, and the knife, and the top surface of the throne. Not likely to prove very useful, I’m afraid, but do your best.’

While Thompson set up his camera, Alleyn turned up the working-lamps and browsed about the studio. Fox joined him.

‘Funny sort of case, sir,’ said Fox. ‘Romantic.’

‘Good heavens, Fox, what a macabre idea of romance you’ve got.’

‘Well, sensational,’ amended Fox. ‘The papers will make a big thing of it. We’ll have them all down in hordes before the night’s over.’

‘That reminds me—I must send a wire to the Bathgates. I’m due there tomorrow. To business, Brer Fox. Here we have the studio as it was when the class assembled this morning. Paint set out on the palettes, you see. Canvases on all the easels. We’ve got seven versions of the pose.’

‘Very useful, I dare say,’ conceded Fox. ‘Or, at any rate, the ones that look like something human may come in handy. That affair over on your left looks more like a set of worms than a naked female. I suppose it is meant for the deceased, isn’t it?’

‘I think so,’ said Alleyn. ‘The artist is probably a surrealist or a vorticalist or something.’ He inspected the canvas and the painttable in front of it.

‘Here we are. The name’s on the paintbox. Phillida Lee. It is a rum bit of work, Fox, no doubt of it. This big thing next door is more in our line. Very solid and simple.’

He pointed to Katti Bostock’s enormous canvas.

‘Bold,’ said Fox. He put on his spectacles and stared blankly at the picture.

‘You get the posture of the figure very well there,’ said Alleyn.

They moved to Cedric Malmsley’s table.

‘This, I think, must be the illustrator,’ continued Alleyn. ‘Yes— here’s the drawing for the story.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Fox, greatly scandalized. ‘He’s made a picture of the girl after she was killed.’

‘No, no. That was the original idea for the pose. He’s merely added a dagger and the dead look. Here’s the portfolio with all the drawings. H’m, very volup. and Beardsley, with a slap of modern thrown in. Hullo!’ Alleyn had turned to a delicate watercolour in which three medieval figures mowed a charming field against a background of hayricks, pollard willows, and a turreted palace. ‘That’s rum!’ muttered Alleyn.

‘What’s up, Mr Alleyn?’