Wild visions cavorted through the brain of PC Oates. He saw in a flash all the keen young PCs of his favourite novels and each of them, with becoming modesty, pointed out a tiny detail that had escaped the notice of his superiors. To each of them did the Man from Higher Up exclaim, ‘By thunder, my lad, you’ve got it,’ and upon each of them was rapid promotion visited, while chief constables, the Big Four, yes, the Man at the Top himself, all told each other that young Oates was a man to be watched. For each of these PCs was the dead spit and image of PC Oates himself.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Oates.

‘I’d like to hear about your appearance on the scene,’ said Alleyn.

‘In my own words, sir?’

‘If you please, Oates,’ said Alleyn.

Dick Oates took a deep breath, mustered his wits, and began.

‘On the night of Friday, August 2nd,’ he began, and paused in horror. His voice had gone into the top of his head and had turned soprano on the way. It was the voice of a squeaking stranger. He uttered a singular noise in his throat and began again.

‘On the night of Friday, August 2nd, at approximately 9.16 p.m.,’ said Oates in a voice of thunder, ‘being on duty at the time, I was proceeding up South Ottercombe Steps with the intention of completing my beat. My attention was aroused by my hearing the sound of my own name, viz, Oates, being called repeatedly from a spot on my left, namely the front door of the Plume of Feathers, public-house, Abel Pomeroy, proprietor. On proceeding to the said front door, I encountered William Pomeroy. He informed me that there had been an accident. Miss Decima Moore came into the entrance from inside the building. She said, “There is no doubt about it, he is dead.” I said, to the best of my knowledge and belief, “My Gawd, who is dead?” Miss Moore then said, “Watchman.” I then proceeded into the private taproom.’

Oates paused. Alleyn said, ‘Yes, Oates, that’s all right, but when I said your own words I meant your own words. This is not going to be taken down and used in evidence against you. I want to hear what sort of an impression you got of it all. You see, we have already seen your formal report in the file.’

‘‘Ess, sir,’ said Oates, breathing rather hard through his nostrils.

‘Very well, then. Did you get the idea that these men were tight, moderately tight, or stone-cold sober?’

‘I received the impression, sir, that they had been intoxicated but were now sobered.’

‘All of them?’

‘Well, sir, when I left the tap at nine o’clock, sir, to proceed—to go round the beat, they was not to say drunk but bosky-eyed like. Merry like.’

‘Including Mr Legge?’