‘Could we speak to him, I wonder?’

Webley nodded to the man at the door. He went out and returned with Colly.

‘Colly,’ said Mr Falls. ‘What sort of boots was Mr Smith wearing when you went home last night?’

‘Not boots at all, sir,’ said Colly instantly. ‘Soft shoes.’

‘Did you walk over to the hall with him before the concert?’

‘Yessir. We went over early with extra chairs.’

‘Was he wearing shoes then?’ Webley demanded.

Colly jumped and said: ‘You’re that small, Inspector, I never see you. No, he was wearing boots then. ’E took ’is shoes in ’is pocket ’case we finished up with a dance.’

‘Did he carry his boots home?’ asked Webley.

‘I never see them,’ said Colly, and looked uneasy.

‘OK.’

Colly glanced unhappily at Simon and went out.

Webley walked over to the man at the door.

‘Where is he?’ he asked.

‘In his room, Mr Webley. We’re watching it.’

‘Come on, then,’ said Webley, and they went out, their boots making a heavy tramping sound that died away in the direction of Smith’s room.

Chapter 15
The Last of Septimus Falls

‘It’s no good asking me to work up a grain of sympathy for him,’ said Dikon. ‘There’s no capital punishment in this country now. He’ll spend the rest of his life in jail, and a damned lucky let-off it is for him. He’s a dirty little spy and a still dirtier murderer. It’s poor old Questing I can’t bear to think about.’

‘Oh, don’t.’

‘I’m sorry, Barbara darling. No, I won’t call you “Barbara darling”. In our giddy theatrical circles we call people “darling” when we can’t remember their names. I shall call you something calmly Victorian. Barbara, love. Barbara, my dear. Now, don’t take umbrage. It doesn’t hurt you, and it gives me a certain hollow satisfaction. How far shall we walk?’

‘To the sea?’

‘My feet will turn into smouldering sponges, but I’m game. Come on.’

They walked on in silence under a pontificial sky.

‘It seems more like a week ago than two days,’ said Barbara at last.

‘I know. Exit Smith in custody. Exit Mr Septimus Falls in a trail of glory and soon, alas, exit us.’

‘How soon?’

‘He talks about next week. We’ve got to stay for the inquest. He’s much better, you know. Your anatomical uncle says he doesn’t think there will be a recrudescence of the fibrositis, which is, I consider, a magic phrase.’

‘Where will he go?’ asked Barbara in a flat voice.

‘To London. He wants to take a company out on tour. The Bard in the blitz. Fit-ups. Play anywhere. It’s a grand idea,’ said Dikon and added, ‘I’m leaving him.’

‘Leaving him? But why?’