‘Conspiracy,’ Alleyn went on. ‘Briefly, it involves the painting by you, Mr Pollock, of extremely accomplished Constable forgeries. The general idea, we think, went something like this. You made the forgeries. Your young friends on the motorbike, working under Foljambe’s orders, were to plant them about this countryside where Constable once painted. The general principle of “salting” the non-existent mine. The first discovery by Mr and Miss Hewson (if that is their name) in Bagg’s yard was to be given exactly the right amount of publicity. If necessary the circumstances surrounding the lucky find would be authenticated by Bagg himself, by my wife and Miss Rickerby-Carrick and the only other unimplicated passenger. There was to be an immediate bogus hunt throughout the countryside by: a) Mr Lazenby better known in the Antipodes, we incline to believe, as Dinky Dickson: b) Mr and Miss Hewson or Ed and Sally-Lou Moran as the case may be, and c)—ineffable cheek—by you yourself, Mr Pollock, in hot pursuit of your own forgeries.’

‘You got to be dreaming,’ said Mr Pollock.

‘The result of this treasure-hunt would be—surprise! surprise!—a tidy haul of “Constables” and a general melting away of the conspirators to sell them in the highest market. The whole operation was, we believe, in the nature of a trial run, observed by the key figures and designed for expansion, with appropriate modifications, into world-wide operations.’

‘All of this,’ said Lazenby breathlessly, ‘is untrue. It is wickedly and scandalously untrue.’

‘Meanwhile,’ Alleyn continued, ‘the terrain would have been thoroughly explored for the subsequent disposal (or we don’t know anything about our Jampot) of hard drugs by means of what is laughingly known in the racket as aerial top-dressing. The collectors would be at large among a swarm of Constable-seekers and would be accepted by the locals, with however marked a degree of exasperation, as such.’

‘How do you like this fella? Do we have to sit around and take this?’ Mr Hewson asked of no one in particular.

‘You haven’t got much choice, have you?’ Caley Bard said. And to Alleyn: ‘Go on, please.’

‘Almost from the first things went askew. I again draw your attention to Mr K. G. Z. Andropulos who was to be a passenger in Cabin 7. He was a bit of wreckage from Greece who had a picture-dealing shop in Soho which may have been intended as a dispersal point for some of the forgeries. He turned nark on Foljambe, madly tried a spot of blackmail, and was murdered, exactly in the same way as the women. By the Jampot himself, about thirty-eight hours before he embarked in the Zodiac.’

The three men broke into simultaneous ejaculations. Alleyn raised his hand.

‘We’ll come to alibis,’ he said, ‘in due course. They have been checked.’

‘All I can say,’ Caley said, ‘is Thank God and perhaps I’m being premature, at that.’