‘Has it struck you at all,’ Alleyn asked, ‘that there’s one feature of the whole story about which nobody seems to show the slightest curiosity?’

‘I can’t say it has.’

Alleyn took from his pocket the figurine that he had wrapped in paper and in his handkerchief. He opened it up and, holding it very gingerly, stood it on Coombe’s desk. The single word, Death, gummed to a sheet of paper, was still fixed in position.

‘Nobody,’ Alleyn said, ‘as far as I can gather, has ever asked themselves who was the original Green Lady.’

III

‘That piece of paper,’ Alleyn said, ‘is not the kind used for the original messages. It’s the same make as this other piece which is a bit of The Boy-and-Lobster letter paper. The word ‘Death’ is not in a type that is used in your local rag. I can’t be sure but I think it’s from a London sporting paper called The Racing Supplement. The printer’s ink, as you see, is a bluish black and the type’s distinctive. Was Miss Cost a racing fan?’

‘Her?’ Coombe said. ‘Don’t be funny.’

‘The Major is. He takes The Racing Supplement.’

‘Does he, by gum!’

‘Yes. Have you got a dabs-kit handy?’

‘Nothing very flash, but, yes: we’ve got the doings.’

Alleyn produced his box of cigars. He opened this up.

‘There ought to be good impressions inside the lid. Bailey can give it the full works, if necessary, but we’ll take a fly at it, shall we?’

Coombe got out his insufflator and a lens. They developed a good set of prints on the lid and turned to the paper impaled over the figurine’s head.

After a minute or two Alleyn gave a satisfied grunt.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘The index and thumb prints are as good as you’d ask. I think I’ll call on the gallant Major.’

He left Coombe still poring lovingly over the exhibits, walked down to his car, collected his suitcases and crossed by the hotel launch to the Island. Trehern was in charge. His manner unattractively combined truculence with servility.

It was now two o’clock.

The Major, it presently transpired, was in the habit of taking a siesta.

‘He got used to it in India,’ Mrs Barrimore said. ‘People do.’

Alleyn had run into her at the door of the old pub. She was perfectly composed and remote in her manner: a beautiful woman who could not, he thought, ever be completely unaware of the effect she made. It was inescapable. She must, over and over again, have seen it reflected in the eyes of men who looked at, and at once recognized, her. She was immensely attractive.

He said: ‘Perhaps, in the meantime, I may have a word with you?’

‘Very well. In the parlour, if you like. The children are out, just now.’

‘The children?’