‘It’s no good,’ said Cubitt abruptly, ‘we’ve missed it. The sun’s too far round.’

‘But it’s not ten yet,’ objected Parish.

‘Can’t help it,’ said Cubitt and put down his palette.

‘For pity’s sake,’ said Alleyn, ‘don’t go wrong with it now.’

‘I’ll knock off, I think.’

‘We’ve been a hell of a nuisance. I’m sorry.’

‘My dear chap,’ said Parish, ‘you’re nothing to the modest Violet. It’s a wonder she hasn’t appeared. She puts up her easel about five yards behind Norman’s and brazenly copies every stroke he makes.’

‘It’s not as bad as that, Seb.’

‘Well, personally,’ said Parish, ‘I’ve had quite as much as I want of me brother Terence and me brother Brian and me unfortunate cousin poor Bryonie.’

‘What!’ exclaimed Alleyn.

‘She has a cousin who is a noble lord and got jugged for something.’

‘Bryonie,’ said Alleyn. ‘He was her cousin, was he?’

‘So it seems. Do you remember the case?’

‘Vaguely,’ said Alleyn. ‘Vaguely. Was Miss Darragh anywhere about on that same morning?’

‘She was over there,’ said Parish. ‘Back in the direction you’ve come from. She must have stayed there for hours. She came in, drenched to the skin and looking like the wrath of heaven, late in the afternoon.’

‘An enthusiast,’ murmured Alleyn. ‘Ah, well, we mustn’t hang round you any longer. We’re bound for Cary Edge Farm.’

Something in the look Cubitt gave him reminded Alleyn of Will Pomeroy.

Parish said, ‘To call on the fair Decima? You’ll be getting into trouble with Will Pomeroy.’

‘Seb,’ said Cubitt, ‘pray don’t be kittenish. Miss Moore is out on Saturday mornings, Alleyn.’

‘So Will Pomeroy told us, but we hoped to meet her on her way to Ottercombe. Good luck to the work. Come along, Fox.’

II

A few yards beyond the headland they struck a rough track that led inland and over the downs.

‘This will take us there, I expect,’ said Alleyn. ‘Fox, those gentlemen lied about Watchman and the furze bush.’

‘I thought so, sir. Mr Cubitt made a poor fist of it.’

‘Yes. He’s not a good liar. He’s a damn‘ good painter. I must ask Troy about him.’

Alleyn stopped and thumped the point of his stick on the ground.

‘What the devil,’ he asked, ‘is this about Lord Bryonie?’

‘He’s the man that was mixed up in the Montague Thringle case.’

‘Yes, I know. He got six months. He was Thringle’s cat’s-paw. By George, Fox, d’you know what?’

‘What, sir?’

‘Luke Watchman defended Bryonie. I’ll swear he did.’

‘I wouldn’t remember.’

‘Yes, you would. You must. By gum, Fox, we’ll look up that case. Watchman defended Bryonie, and Bryonie was Miss Darragh’s cousin. Rum. Monstrous rum.’

‘Sort of fetched her into the picture by another route.’