‘There are one or two points we would like to clear up and we hope you will be able to help us.’

The extraordinarily pale eyes flickered.

‘Only too pleased,’ murmured Legge and looked only too wretched.

‘Tell me,’ said Alleyn, ‘have you formed any theory about this affair?’

‘Accident.’

‘You think that’s possible?’

Legge looked at Alleyn as if he had said something profoundly shocking.

‘Possible? But of course it’s possible. Dreadfully possible. Such a way to do things! They should have bought traps. The chemist should be struck off the rolls. It’s a disgrace.’

He lowered his voice and became conspiratorial.

‘It was a terrible, virulent poison,’ he whispered mysteriously. ‘A shocking thing that they should have it here. The coroner said so.’

He spoke with a very slight lisp, a mere thickening of sibilants caused, perhaps, by his false teeth.

‘How do you think it got on the dart you threw into Mr Watchman’s finger?’

Legge made a gesture that disconcerted and astonished Alleyn. He raised his hand and shook a finger at Alleyn as if he gently admonished him. If his face had not spoken of terror he would have looked faintly waggish.

‘You suspect me,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t.’

Alleyn was so taken aback by this old-maidish performance that for a moment he could think of nothing to say.

‘You shouldn’t,’ repeated Legge. ‘Because I didn’t.’

‘The case is as wide open as the grave.’

‘He’s dead,’ whispered Legge, ‘and buried. I didn’t do it. I was the instrument. It’s not a very pleasant thing to be the instrument of death.’

‘No. You should welcome any attempt to get to the bottom of the affair.’

‘So I would,’ muttered Legge eagerly, ‘if I thought they would get to the truth. But I’m not popular here. Not in some quarters. And that makes me nervous, Chief Inspector.’

‘It needn’t,’ said Alleyn. ‘But we’re being very unorthodox, Mr Legge. May we have your full name and address?’

Fox opened his notebook. Legge suddenly stood up and, in an uncertain sort of fashion, came to attention.

‘Robert Legge,’ he said rapidly, ‘care of the Plume of Feathers, Ottercombe, South Devon. Business address: Secretary and Treasurer, The Combe Left Movement, GPO Box 119, Illington.’

He sat down again.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Fox.

‘How long have you been here, Mr Legge?’ asked Alleyn.

‘Ten months. My chest is not very good. Nothing serious, you know. I needn’t be nervous on that account. But I was in very low health altogether. Boils. Even in my ears. Very unpleasant and painful. My doctor said it would be as well to move.’

‘Ah, yes. From where?’

‘From Liverpool. I was in Liverpool. In Flattery Street, South, Number 17. Not a very healthy part.’

‘That was your permanent address?’

‘Yes. I had been there for some little time. I had one or two secretaryships. For a time I was in vacuums.’