‘Uncle James turns everything into a kind of argument. Even terribly serious things. He can’t help it. The most ordinary conversation with Uncle James can turn in the twinkling of an eye into a violent argument. But, though you mightn’t think it, he is open to conviction. In the end. Only by that time you’re so exhausted you’ve forgotten what it’s all about.’

‘I know. The verdict goes by default.’

‘Would that be the way the scientific mind works?’

‘How should I know, my dear?’

‘I should like to ask you something,’ said Barbara after a silence. ‘It’s nothing much but it’s been worrying me. Suppose this does turn out to be—’ She hesitated.

‘Murder? One feels rather shy about uttering that word, doesn’t one? Do you prefer the more classy “homicide”?’

‘No, thank you. Suppose it is murder, then. The police will want to know every tiny little thing about last night, won’t they?’

‘I suppose so. It’s what one imagines. A prolonged and dreary winnowing.’

‘Yes. Well now, please don’t fly into another rage with me because I really couldn’t bear it, but ought I to tell them about my new dress?’

Dikon gaped at her. ‘Why on earth?’

‘I mean, about him coming up to me and talking as if he’d given it to me.’

Appalled by the possible implication of the project Dikon said roughly: ‘Good Lord, what tomfoolery is this!’

‘There!’ said Barbara. ‘You’re livid again. I can’t think why you lose your temper every time I mention the dress. I still think he did it. He’s the only person we knew who wouldn’t see that it was an impossible sort of thing to do.’

Dikon took a deep breath. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I told Questing the blasted clothes were almost certainly a present from your Auntie Whatnot in India. He remarked that India was a long way away and I’ve no doubt he thought he’d take a gamble and pretend he was the little fairy godfather. He was simply trying to make capital. And anyway,’ Dikon added, hearing his voice turn flat, ‘you must see that all this can have no possible bearing on the case. You don’t want to go trotting to the police with tatty little bits of gossip about your clothes. Answer any questions that are put to you, you silly child, and don’t muddle the poor gentlemen. Barbara, will you promise?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Barbara gravely. ‘It’s only that I’ve got a notion in my head that somehow or another my dress does fit into the picture.’