The figure had come up darkly against the formalized sky. Though the treatment was one of extreme simplification, there was no feeling of emptiness. The portrait was at once rich and austere. There was no bravura in Cubitt’s painting. It seemed that he had pondered each brushmark gravely and deeply, and had then laid it down on a single impulse and left it so.

‘Lord, it’s good,’ said Alleyn. ‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’

Parish stood with his head on one side and said, ‘Do you like it?’ But Cubitt said, ‘Do you paint, Alleyn?’

‘No, not I. My wife does.’

‘Does she exhibit at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Her name is Troy.’

‘O God!’ said Cubitt. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ said Alleyn humbly.

‘To my mind,’ answered Cubitt, ‘the best we’ve got.’

‘Do you think it’s like me?’ asked Parish. ‘I tell Norman he hasn’t quite got my eyes. Judging by my photographs, you know. Not that I don’t like it. I think it’s marvellous, old boy, you know that.’

‘Seb,’ said Cubitt, ‘your price is above rubies. So long as you consider it a pretty mockery of nature, I am content.’

‘Oh,’ said Parish, ‘I’m delighted with it, Norman, really. It’s only a suggestion about the eyes.’

‘How long have you been at it?’ asked Alleyn.

‘This is the sixth day. I had two mornings before the catastrophe. We shelved it for a bit after that.’

‘Naturally,’ added Parish solemnly. ‘We didn’t feel like it.’

‘Naturally,’ agreed Cubitt dryly.

‘Tell me,’ said Alleyn, ‘did you ever pass Mr Watchman on your way to or from this place?’

Cubitt had laid a streak of blue across his palette with the knife. His fingers opened and the knife fell into the paint. Parish’s jaw dropped. He looked quickly at Cubitt as if asking him a question.

‘How do you mean?’ asked Cubitt. ‘He was only here one day. He died the night after he got here.’

‘That was the Friday,’ said Alleyn. ‘Did you work here on the Friday morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, was Mr Watchman with you?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Cubitt quickly, ‘he was still in bed when we left.’

‘Did you see him on the way home?’

‘I don’t think we did,’ said Parish.

‘In a little hollow this side of a furze bush and just above the main road.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Parish.

‘No,’ said Cubitt, a little too loudly. ‘We didn’t. Why?’

‘He was there some time,’ said Alleyn vaguely.

Cubitt said, ‘Look here, do you mind if I get going again? The sun doesn’t stand still in the heavens.’

‘Of course,’ said Alleyn quickly.

Parish took up the pose. Cubitt looked at him and filled a brush with the colour he had mixed. He raised the brush and held it poised. Alleyn saw that his hand trembled.