Mr Tillottson’s pen hovered anxiously. ‘Pardon?’ he repeated. ‘Oh. Wait a wee, till I get it down. One time commercial artist. No present known occupation but owns property, is in the money and living well. Nothing in Records? OK? And the other two? Natouche and Bard? Nothing. What’s that? Yes, we’ve got that stuff about his practice in Liverpool. What? Laurenson and Busby, London? Tutorial Service? Spends his vacations chasing butterflies. Known to who? British Lepi—Oh. Given his name to what? Spell it out. L.A.P.A.Z.B.A.R.D.I.I. What’s that when it’s at home? A butterfly? Ta. Yes. Yes. Mr Alleyn’s come in. I’ll tell him, then. Thanks.’

Alleyn said: ‘Don’t hang up. Let me have a word.’ He took the receiver. ‘Alleyn here,’ he said. ‘Look, I heard all that but I’d like men to call immediately at all the addresses. Yes. Liverpool, too. Yes, I know. Yes, but nevertheless—right. And ring us back, will you? Yes.’

He hung up. ‘Well, Bert,’ he said, ‘what have you got in your back parlour? Let’s take a look, shall we?’

‘Better see this first, hadn’t you?’

Tillottson unlocked a wall safe and from it took an object like a miniature pudding tied up in chamois leather and attached to a cord. ‘I haven’t opened it,’ he said.

Alleyn opened it, cautiously. ‘Good God!’ he said.

There it lay, on a police officer’s desk in an English market town: an exotic if ever there was one: a turquoise enamel ovoid, starred with diamonds and girt with twelve minuscule figures decked out in emeralds and rubies and pearls, all dancing in order round their jewelled firmament. Aries, Taurus, Gemini—. ‘The old gang’ Alleyn said. ‘It’s an Easter egg by Fabergé, Fox, and the gift of an Emperor. And now—what a descent!—we’ve got to try it for dabs.’ He looked at Thompson and Bailey. ‘Job for you,’ he said.

‘Do you mean to say she charged about the place with this thing hung round her neck!’ Fox exclaimed. ‘It must be worth a fortune. And it’s uncommonly pretty,’ he added. ‘Uncommonly so.’

‘That, unless we’re on the wrong track altogether, is what the Jampot thought. Go ahead, you two. Dabs and pictures.’

They were about to leave the room when the telephone rang. Tillottson answered it. ‘You’d better report to Mr Alleyn,’ he said. ‘Hold on.’ He held out the receiver. ‘PM result,’ he said.

Alleyn listened. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘What we expected.’ He hung up. ‘She didn’t drown, Fox. Pressure on the carotids and vagus nerve. The mixture as before and straight from the Jampot. All right, Bert. Show us your captives.’

They were in the little charge-room, lounging back on a couple of office chairs and chewing gum. They were as Natouche had described them and their behaviour was completely predictable: the quarter sneer, the drooped eyelid, the hunched shoulder and the perpetual complacent chew. The girl, Alleyn thought, looking at her hands, was frightened: the man hid his hands in his pockets and betrayed nothing but his own insolence.