‘Before we go any further,’ said Alleyn, ‘I think I should explain that Lord Robert Gospell was in the confidence of Scotland Yard as regards these blackmailing letters. He was working for us on the case. We’ve got his signed statement that leaves no doubt at all that Mr Dimitri collected a sum of money at a concert held at the Constance Street Hall on Thursday, June the third. Lord Robert actually watched Mr Dimitri collect his money.’

‘He—’ Dimitri caught his breath, his lips were drawn back from his teeth in a sort of grin. ‘I deny everything,’ he said. ‘Everything. I wish to send for my lawyer.’

‘You shall do so, Mr Dimitri, when I have finished. On June the eighth, two nights ago, Lady Carrados gave a ball at Marsdon House. Lord Robert was there. As he knew so much about Mr Dimitri already, he thought he would find out a little more. He watched Mr Dimitri. He now knew the method employed. He also knew that Lady Carrados was the victim of blackmail. Is that right, Lady Carrados?’

‘Yes. I had a conversation with him about it. He knew what I was going to do.’

‘What were you going to do?’

‘Put my bag containing five hundred pounds in a certain place in the green sitting-room upstairs.’

‘Yes,’ said Alleyn. ‘Now, Lord Robert saw Mr Dimitri return her empty bag to Lady Carrados shortly before one o’clock. At one o’clock he rang me up and told me he now had enough evidence. The conversation was interrupted by someone who must have overheard at least one very significant phrase. Two and a half hours later Lord Robert was murdered.’

The quiet of the room was blown into piercing clamour. Dimitri had screamed like a woman, his mouth wide open. This shocking rumpus lasted for a second and stopped. Alleyn had a picture of an engine-driver pulling a string and then letting it go. Dimitri stood, still with a gaping mouth, wagging his finger at Alleyn.

‘Now then, now then,’ said Fox and stepped up to him.

‘False!’ said Dimitri, frantically snapping his fingers in Fox’s face and then shaking them as if they were scorched. ‘False! You accuse me of murder. I am not an assassin. I am innocent. Cristo mio, I am innocent, innocent, innocent!’

For a moment it looked as if he’d try to bolt from the room. He might have been a tenor giving an excruciatingly bad performance in a second-rate Italian opera. He mouthed at Alleyn, tore his hair, crumpled on to a chair, and burst into tears. Upon the five English people in the office there descended a heavy aura of embarrassment.

‘I am innocent,’ sobbed Dimitri. ‘As innocent as a child. The blessed saints bear witness to my innocence. The blessed saints bear witness—’