Alleyn counted on his long thin fingers.

‘That’s five,’ he said, ‘six counting old Pomeroy. We’re left with the Honourable Violet Darragh and Mr George Nark.’

‘You can forget ‘em,’ rejoined Harper. ‘The Honourable Violet’s a rum old girl from Ireland, who takes views in paints. She was there writing letters when it happened. I’ve checked up on her and she’s the genuine article. She’ll talk the hind leg off a donkey. So’ll George Nark. He’s no murderer. He’s too damned silly to kill a woodlouse except he treads on it accidental.’

‘How many of these people are still at Ottercombe?’

‘All of ‘em.’

‘Good Lord!’ Alleyn exclaimed, ‘didn’t they want to get away when it was all over? I’d have thought—’

‘So would anybody,’ agreed Harper. ‘But it seems Mr Cubitt had started off on several pictures down there and wants to finish them. One’s a likeness of Mr Parish so he’s stayed down-along too. They waited for the funeral which was here. Deceased had no relatives nearer than Mr Parish and Mr Parish said he thought his cousin would have liked to be put away in the country. Several legal gentlemen came down from London and the flowers were a masterpiece. Well, they just stopped on, Mr Cubitt painting as quiet as you please. He’s a cool customer, is Mr Cubitt.’

‘How much longer will they be here?’

‘Reckon another week. They came for three. Did the same thing last year. It’s a fortnight tonight since this case cropped up. We’ve kept the private bar shut up. Everything was photographed and printed. There was nothing of interest in deceased’s pockets. He smoked some outlandish kind of cigarettes. Daha—something, but that’s no use. We’ve got his movements taped out. Arrived on Thursday night and didn’t go out. Friday morning, went for a walk, but don’t know exactly where, except it was through the tunnel. Friday afternoon, went upstairs after lunch and was in his room writing letters. Seen in his room by Mrs Ives, the housekeeper, who went up at 3.30 to shut windows and found him asleep on his bed. Also seen at four o’clock by Mr Cubitt who looked in on his way back from painting down on the wharf. Came downstairs at 5.15 or thereabouts and was in the private bar from then onwards till he died. I don’t think I missed anything.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t.’