‘And it was full,’ said Fox.

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘That settles it, I fancy.’

‘How d’you mean, sir.’

‘It’s a case of murder.’

II

The parlour of the Feathers is the only room in the house that is generally uninhabited. For the usual patrons, the private tap is the common room. The parlour is across the side passage and opposite the public taproom. It overlooks Ottercombe Steps and beneath its windows are the roofs of the Fish Lane houses. It has a secret and deserted life of its own. Victoria’s Jubilee and Edward the Seventh’s wedding face each other across a small desert of linoleum and plush. Above the mantelpiece hangs a picture of two cylindrical and slug-like kittens. Upon the mantelpiece are three large shells. A rag-rug, lying in front of the fireplace, suggests that in a more romantic age Harlequin visted the Feathers and sloughed his skin before taking a leap up the chimney.

For Alleyn’s arrival the parlour came to life. Someone had opened the window and placed a bowl of flowers on the plush-covered table. Abel Pomeroy hurriedly added a writing pad, a pencil, a terrible old pen and a bottle of ink. He surveyed the arrangements with an anxious smile, disappeared for a minute, and returned to ask Alleyn if there was anything else he needed.

‘Two pints of beer, Mr Pomeroy,’ said Alleyn, ‘will set me up for the rest of the evening.’

Abel performed a sort of slow-motion trick with his right hand drawing away his apron to reveal a thickly cobwebbed bottle.

‘I wonder, sir,’ he said, ‘if you’d pleasure me by trying a drop of this yurr tipple. ‘Twurr laid down by my old Dad, many a year back. Sherry ‘tis. ‘Montillady. I did use to call ‘er Amadillo afore I knew better.’

‘But my dear Mr Pomeroy,’ said Alleyn, ‘this is something very extra indeed. It’s a wine for the gods.’

‘Just what the old colonel said, sir, when I told him us had it. It would pleasure the Feathers, sir, if you would honour us.’

‘It’s extraordinarily nice of you.’

‘You wurr ‘straordinary nice to me, sir, when I come up to London. If you’ll axcuse me, I’ll get the glasses.’

‘It should be decanted, Mr Pomeroy.’

‘So it should, then. I’ll look out a decanter tomorrow, sir, and in the meanwhile us’ll open the bottle.’

They opened the bottle and took a glass each.

‘To the shade of Edgar Allan Poe,’ murmured Alleyn, and raised his glass.

‘The rest is yours, gentlemen,’ said Abel. “Twill be set aside special. Thurr’s a decanter in the Private. If so be you bain’t afeard, same as George Nark, that all my bottles is full of pison, tomorrow I’ll decant this yurr tipple in your honour.’

Alleyn and Fox murmured politely.

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