It was a dull, indifferent snapshot: a tangle of bracken, a downward slope of broken ground and the top of a large boulder. In the foreground out of focus was the image of wire-netting.

‘Above the Spring,’ Alleyn said. ‘Taken from the hillside. Look here, Fox.’

Fox adjusted his spectacles. ‘Feet,’ he said. ‘Two pairs. Courting couple.’

‘Very much so. Miss Cost’s anathema. I’m afraid Miss Cost begins to emerge as a progressively unattractive character.’

‘Shutter-peeping,’ said Fox. ‘You don’t get it so often among women.’

Alleyn turned it over. Neatly written across the back was the current year and ‘17th June. 7.30 p.m.’

‘Last month,’ Alleyn said. ‘Bailey!’ he called out. ‘Here, a minute, would you?’ Bailey came in. ‘Take a look at this. Use a lens. I want you to tell me if you think the man’s shoes in this shot might tally with anything you saw at the Spring. It’s a tall order, I know.’

Bailey put the snapshot under a lamp and bent over it. Presently he said: ‘Can I have a word with Thompson, sir?’ Sergeant Thompson was summoned from outer darkness. ‘How would this blow up?’ Bailey asked him.

‘Here’s the neg.’

‘It’s a shocking neg,’ Thompson said, and added grudgingly, ‘she’s got an enlarger.’

Alleyn said: ‘On the face of it, do you think there’s any hope of a correspondence, Bailey?’

Bailey, still using his lens said: ‘Can’t really say, sir. The casts are in my room at the pub.’

‘What about you, Thompson? Got your shots of the prints?’

‘They’re in the dish now.’

‘Well, take this out and see what you make of it. Have you found her camera?’

‘Yes. Lovely job,’ Thompson said. ‘You wouldn’t have expected it. Very fast.’ He named the make with reverence.

‘Pender,’ Alleyn said, re-entering the shop. ‘Do you know anything about Miss Cost’s camera?’

Pender shook his head and then did what actors call a double-take. ‘Yes, I do, though,’ he said. ‘It was give her in gratitude by a foreign lady that was cured of a terrible bad rash. She was a patient up to hospital and Miss Cost talked her into the Spring.’

‘I see. Thompson, would it get results round about seven-thirty on a summer evening?’

‘Certainly would. Better than this affair, if properly handled.’

‘All right. See what you can do.’

Bailey and Thompson went away and Alleyn rejoined Fox in the bedroom.

‘Fox,’ Alleyn said distastefully, ‘I don’t know whose feet the male pair may prove to be but I’m damn’ sure I’ve recognized the female’s.’

‘Really, Mr Alleyn?’

‘Yes. Very good buckskin shoes with very good buckles. She wore them to the Festival. I’m afraid it’s Mrs Barrimore.’

‘Fancy!’ said Fox, after a pause, and he added with his air of simplicity: ‘Well, then, it’s to be hoped the others turn out to be the Major’s.’

III