‘It does. Well, come on. We’ve lots of little worries. I wonder if Miss Moore uses orange-brown lipstick. I tell you what, Fox, I think Cubitt is catched with Miss Moore.’

‘In love with her?’

‘Deeply, I should say. Did you notice, last night, how his manner changed when he talked about her? The same thing happened just now. He doesn’t like our going to Cary Edge. Nor did Will Pomeroy. I wonder what she’s like.’

He saw what Decima was like in thirty seconds. She came swinging over the hilltop. She wore a rust-coloured jumper and a blue skirt. Her hair was ruffled, her eyes were bright, and her lips were orange-brown. When she saw the two men she halted for a second and then came on towards them.

Alleyn took off his hat and waited for her.

‘Miss Moore?’

‘Yes.’

She stopped, but her pose suggested that it would be only for a moment.

‘We hoped that we might meet if we were too late to find you at home,’ said Alleyn. ‘I wonder if you can give us a minute or two. We’re police officers.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind—?’

‘You’d better come back to the farm,’ said Decima. ‘It’s over the next hill.’

‘That will be a great bore for you, I’m afraid.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can go into the Coombe later in the morning.’,

‘We shan’t keep you long. There’s no need to turn back.’

Decima seemed to hesitate.

‘All right,’ she said at last. She walked over to a rock at the edge of the track and sat on it. Alleyn and Fox followed her.

She looked at them with the kind of assurance that is given to women who are unusually lovely and sometimes to women who are emphatically plain. She was without self-consciousness. Nobody had told Alleyn that Decima was beautiful and he was a little surprised. ‘It’s impossible,’ he thought, ‘that she can be in love with young Pomeroy.’

‘I suppose it’s about Luke Watchman,’ said Decima.

‘Yes, it is. We’ve been sent down to see if we can tidy up a bit.’

‘Does that mean they think it was murder?’ asked Decima steadily, ‘or don’t you answer that sort of question?’

‘We don’t,’ rejoined Alleyn, smiling, ‘answer that sort of question.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Decima.

‘We are trying,’ continued Alleyn, ‘to trace Mr Watchman’s movements from the time he got here until the time of the accident.’

‘Why?’

‘Part of the tidying-up process.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s all pretty plain sailing except for Friday morning.’

Alleyn saw her head turn so that for a second she looked towards Ottercombe Tunnel. It was only for a second and she faced him again.