‘We’d better get the key. I’ll fix it now,’ Alleyn said and snapped the padlock. It was on a short length of chain: not long enough, he noticed, to admit a hand into the cage.

On the way back to the hotel they planned out the rest of the day. Coombe would ring the Yard from the station. Alleyn in the meantime would start inquiries at the hotel. They would meet in an hour’s time. It was now half past ten.

They had rounded the first spur along the path and come up with an overhanging outcrop of rock, when Alleyn stopped.

‘Half a minute,’ he said.

‘What’s up?’

Alleyn moved to the edge of the path and stooped. He picked something up and walked gingerly round behind the rock. ‘Come over here,’ he called. ‘Keep wide of those prints, though.’

Coombe looked down and then followed him.

‘There’s a bit of shelter here,’ Alleyn said. ‘Look.’

The footprints were well defined on the soft ground, and, in the lee of the outcrop, fairly dry. ‘Good, well-made boots,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think the owner was here so very long ago. Here’s where he waited and there, a little gift for the industrious officer, Coombe, is his cigar ash.’ He opened his hand. A scarlet paper ring lay on the palm. ‘Very good make,’ he said. ‘The Major smokes them. Sells them, too, no doubt, so what have you? Come on.’

They continued on their way.

As soon as Alleyn went into The Boy-and-Lobster he realized that wind of the catastrophe was abroad. People stood about in groups with a covert, anxious air. The porter saw him and came forward.

‘I’m very sorry, sir. It be’ant none of my doing. I kept it close as a trap. But the ambulance was seen and the stretcher party and there you are. I said I supposed it was somebody took ill at the cottages but there was Sergeant Pender, sir, and us – I mean, they – be all wondering why it’s a police matter.’

Alleyn said ambiguously that he understood. ‘It’d be a good idea,’ he suggested, ‘if you put up a notice that the Spring will be closed today.’

‘The Major’ll have to be axed about that, sir.’

‘Very well. Where is he?’

‘He’ll be in the old house, sir. He be’ant showed up round hereabouts.’

‘I’ll find him. Would you ring Miss Pride’s rooms and say I hope to call on her within the next half-hour? Mr Alleyn.’

He went out and in again by the old pub door. There was nobody to be seen but he heard voices in what he thought was probably the ex-bar-parlour and tapped on the door. It was opened by Patrick Ferrier.

‘Hallo. Good morning, sir,’ said Patrick and then: ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Alleyn said. ‘Very wrong. May I see your step-father?’