‘You remember the blood on the carpet, Walter? At dear old Falconbridge?’

‘Dear me, yes. Now that’s what I was trying to recollect. Of course it was. Poor fellow. Poor fell-oh!’

‘Then you do remember?’ Alleyn cried.

‘Indeed I do,’ said Mrs Harris reproachfully. ‘The poor young wife wrote us such a charming letter, thanking us for the little we had been able to do for him. I would have liked to answer it but unfortunately my husband lost it.’

‘Edith, I have discovered dear old Worsley’s letter. It was in my pocket. Fancy!’

‘Fancy, dear, yes.’

‘Talking of letters,’ said Alleyn to Mrs Harris. ‘Can you by any chance remember anything about a letter that was lost on the occasion of Captain O’Brien’s accident? I think you were asked if it had been found in the vicarage.’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch—’

Alleyn repeated it.

‘To be sure I do,’ said Mrs Harris. ‘Perfectly.’

‘You were unable to give any information about this letter?’

‘On the contrary.’

‘What!’

‘On the contrary,’ repeated Mrs Harris firmly. ‘I sent it after him.’

‘After who?’ roared Fox so loudly that even Mrs Harris gave a little jump. ‘I’m sure I beg pardon, sir,’ said Fox hastily, ‘I don’t know what came over me.’ He opened his notebook in some confusion.

‘Mrs Harris,’ said Alleyn, ‘will you please tell us everything you can remember about this letter?’

‘Yes, please do, Edith,’ said her husband unexpectedly. ‘She’ll find it for you,’ he added in an aside. ‘Don’t distress yourselves.’

‘Well,’ began Mrs Harris. ‘It’s a long time ago now and I’m afraid I’m rather hazy. It was after they had taken him away, I fancy, that we found it under the couch in the study. That was when we noticed the stain on the carpet you remember, Walter. At first, of course, I thought it was one of my husband’s letters—it was not in an envelope.

But when I glanced at it I realized at once that it was not, as it began “Dear Daddy” and we have no children.’

‘“Dear Daddy,”’ repeated Alleyn.

‘I decided afterwards that it was perhaps “Dear Paddy” but as my husband’s name is Walter Bernard it didn’t signify. “Why,” I said, or something of that sort. “Why, it must have dropped out of that poor fellow’s coat when the ambulance man examined him.” And—of course, I remember it now as clearly as if it was yesterday—and I said to little Violet: “Pop on your bicycle and take it to the hospital as quickly as you can, dear, because they may be looking for it.” So little Violet—’

‘Who was she, please?’ asked Alleyn rather breathlessly.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Who was little Violet?’ shouted Alleyn.

‘My small niece. My husband’s brother’s third daughter. She was spending her holidays with us. She is grown up now and has a delightful post in London with a Lady Carrados.’

‘Thank you,’ said Alleyn. ‘Please go on.’