‘What was that about, Miss Bostock?’

‘Same thing. Wriggling. I’m doing—I was doing a big thing. I wanted to finish it in time for the Group show. It opened last Friday. She was to give me separate sittings—out of class, you know. She seemed to have the devil in her. Fidgeting, going out when I wanted her. Complaining. Drove me dotty. I didn’t get the thing finished, of course.’

‘Was that the trapeze artiste picture?’ asked Alleyn.

Katti Bostock scowled.

‘I dislike people looking at my things before they’re finished.’

‘I’m sorry; it is beastly, I know,’ said Alleyn. ‘But, you see, we’ve got to do our nosing around.’

‘I suppose you have. Well’—she laughed shortly—‘it’ll never be finished now.’

‘It wouldn’t have been finished anyway, though, would it?’ asked Phillida Lee. ‘I meant I heard you tell her you hated the sight of her, and she could go to the devil.’

‘What d’you mean?’ demanded Katti Bostock harshly. ‘You were not there when I was working.’

‘I happened to come in on Thursday afternoon. I only got inside the door, and you were having such a frightful row I beetled off again.’

‘You’d no business to hang about and eavesdrop,’ said Miss Bostock. Her broad face was full crimson; she leant forward, scowling.

‘There’s no need to lose your temper with me,’ squeaked Miss Lee. ‘I didn’t eavesdrop. I simply walked in. You couldn’t see me because of the screen inside the door, and anyway, you were in such a seething rage you wouldn’t have noticed the Angel Gabriel himself.’

‘For Heaven’s sake, let’s keep our sense of proportion,’ said Troy. ‘The poor little wretch was infuriating, and we’ve all lost our tempers with her again and again.’ She looked at Alleyn. ‘Really, you might say each of us has felt like murdering her at some time or another.’

‘Yes, Miss Troy,’ said Phillida Lee, still staring at Katti Bostock, ‘but we haven’t all said so, have we?’

‘My God—’

‘Katti,’ said Troy. ‘Please!’

‘She’s practically suggesting that—’

‘No, no,’ said Ormerin. ‘Let us, as Troy says, keep our sense of proportion. If exasperation could have stabbed this girl, any one of us might be a murderer. But whichever one of us did—’

‘I don’t see why it need be one of us,’ objected Valmai Seacliff placidly.

‘Nor I,’ drawled Malmsley. ‘The cook may have taken a dislike to her and crawled down to the studio with murder in her heart.’

‘Are we meant to laugh at that?’ asked Hatchett.