Alleyn and Fox murmured politely.

‘Be thurr anything else I can do, gentlemen?’ asked Abel.

‘We’ll have a look at the private bar, Mr Pomeroy, if we may.’

‘Certainly, sir, certainly, and terrible pleased us’ll be to have her opened up again. ‘Tis like having the corpse itself on the premises, with Private shuttered up and us chaps all hugger-mugger of an evening in Public. Has His Royal Highness the Duke of Muck condescended to hand over the keys, sir?’

‘What? Oh—yes I have the keys.’

‘Nick Harper!’ said Abel, ‘with his fanciful blown-up fidgeting ways. Reckon the man laces his boots with red tape. This way if you please, gentlemen, and watch yourselves for the step. “Dallybuttons, Nick,” I said to him, “You’ve aimed your camera and blowed thicky childish li’l squirter over every inch of my private tap, you’ve lain on your belly and scraped the muck off the floor. What do ‘ee want,” I said! “Do ‘ee fancy the corpse will hant the place and write murderer’s name in the dust?” I axed him. This is the door, sir.’

Alleyn produced his bunch of keys and opened the door.

The private tap had been locked up by Oates a fortnight ago, and reopened by Harper and his assistants only for purposes of investigation. The shutter over the bar counter had been drawn down and locked. The window shutters also were fastened. The place was in complete darkness.

Abel switched on the light.

It was a travesty of the private tap that Alleyn saw. The comfort and orderliness of its habitual aspect were quite gone. It had suffered such a change as might overtake a wholesome wench turned drab in a fortnight. Dust covered the tables, settles, and stools. The butt ends of cigarettes strewed the floor, tobacco ash lay everywhere in small patches and trails. The open hearth was littered with ashes of the fire that had warmed Watchman on the night he died. Five empty tumblers were stained with the dregs of Courvoisier ‘87, two with the dregs of the ginger-beer. Of the eighth glass such powdered fragments as had escaped Harper’s brush, crunched jarringly underfoot. The room smelt indescribably stale and second-rate.

‘It do gall me uncommon,’ said Abel, ‘for my private taproom to display itself in thicky shocking state.’

‘Never mind, Mr Pomeroy,’ said Alleyn, ‘we’re used to it, you know.’

He stood just inside the door with Fox at his shoulder. Abel watched them anxiously but it is doubtful if he remarked the difference in their attitudes. Fox’s eyes, light grey in colour, brightened and sharpened as he looked about the room. But Alleyn might have been a guest in the house, and with no more interest than politeness might allow his gaze shifted casually from one dust-covered surface to another.