‘I think so.’ Cubitt rubbed his hair and then looked absentmindedly at his paint-grimed hand. ‘As a matter of fact, my dear Seb,’ he said, with his air of secretly mocking at himself, ‘you have named the root and cause of my affection. You have perpetrated a coincidence, Sebastian. The very play you mentioned just now, started me off on my Freudian road to the jim-jams. “Fool’s Errand,” and well named. It is, as you say, a remarkably naîve play. At the age of seven, however, I did not think so. I found it terrifying.’

‘At the age of seven?’

‘Yes. My eldest brother, poor fool, fancied himself as an amateur and essayed the principal part. I was bullied into enacting the small boy who, as I remember, perpetually bleated: “Papa, why is mamma so pale” and later on: “Papa, why is mamma so quiet? Where has she gone, papa?”’

‘We cut all that in the revival,’ said Parish. ‘It was terrible stuff.’

‘I agree with you. As you remember, papa had poisoned mamma. For years afterwards I had the horrors at the very word. I remember that I used to wipe all the schoolroom china for fear our Miss Tobin was a Borgian governess. I invented all sorts of curious devices in order that Miss Tobin should drink my morning cocoa and I hers. Odd, wasn’t it? I grew out of it but I still dislike the sound of the word and I detest taking medicine labelled in accordance with the Pure Food Act.’

‘Labelled what?’ asked Parish with a wink at Watchman.

‘Labelled poison, damn you,’ said Cubitt.

Watchman looked curiously at him.

‘I suppose there’s something in this psycho-stuff,’ he said. ‘But I always rather boggle at it.’

‘I don’t see why you should,’ said Parish. ‘You yourself get a fit of the staggers if you scratch your finger. You told me once, you fainted when you had a blood test. That’s a phobia, same as Norman’s.’

‘Not quite,’ said Watchman. ‘Lots of people can’t stand the sight of their own blood. This poison scare’s much more unusual. But you don’t mean to tell me, do you, Norman, that because at an early age you helped your brother in a play about cyanide you’d feel definitely uncomfortable if I finished my story?’

Cubitt drained his tankard and set it down on the table.

‘If you’re hell-bent on your beastly story—’ he said.

‘It was only that I was present at the autopsy on this woman who died of cyanide poisoning. When they opened her up, I fainted. Not from emotion but from the fumes. The pathologist said I had a pronounced idiosyncrasy for the stuff. I was damned ill after it. It nearly did for me.’

Cubitt wandered over to the door and lifted his pack.

‘I’ll clean up,’ he said, ‘and join you for the dart game.’

‘Splendid, old boy,’ said Parish. ‘We’ll beat them tonight.’

‘Do our damnedst anyway,’ said Cubitt. At the doorway he turned and looked mournfully at Parish.