‘It looks oddly familiar. One half of the old brain functioning a fraction ahead of the other, perhaps. Or perhaps not. No matter. Look here, Brer Fox, I think before we go any further I’d better tell you as much as I know about the case.’ And Alleyn repeated the gist of Blackman’s report and of his conversations with Troy. ‘This, you see,’ he ended, ‘is the illustration for the story. It was to prove the possibility of murdering someone in this manner that they made the experiment with the dagger, ten days ago.’

‘I see,’ said Fox. ‘Well, somebody’s proved it now all right, haven’t they?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Alleyn. ‘It is proved—literally, up to the hilt.’

‘Cuh!’ said Fox solemnly.

‘Malmsley has represented the dagger as protruding under the left breast, you see. I suppose he thought he’d add the extra touch of what you’d call romance, Brer Fox. The scarlet thread of gore is rather effective in a meretricious sort of way. Good Lord, this is a queer show and no mistake.’

‘Here’s what I call a pretty picture, now,’ said Fox approvingly. He had moved in front of Valmai Seacliff’s canvas. Exaggeratedly slender, the colour scheme a light sequence of blues and pinks.

‘Very elegant,’ said Fox.

‘A little too elegant,’ said Alleyn. ‘Hullo! Look at this.’

Across Francis Ormerin’s watercolour drawing ran an ugly streak of dirty blue, ending in a blob that had run down the paper. The drawing was ruined.

‘Had an accident, seemingly.’

‘Perhaps. This student’s stool is overturned, you’ll notice, Fox. Some of the water in his paint-pot has slopped over and one of his brushes is on the floor.’

Alleyn picked up the brush and dabbed it on the china palette. A half-dry smudge of dirty blue showed.